


Darling

by agelade



Series: Darling Verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agelade/pseuds/agelade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A canon-compliant retelling of book 7; Draco's point of view mostly, with some Snape for good measure.  Features in-character, not-wholly-evil Draco, an increasingly irritated Snape, and a portrait Dumbledore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Alibi

Draco Malfoy was having the worst summer ever. Worse than that summer in Paris with Father's old chums who drank too much and went around setting Muggle things on fire for fun. Worse, even, than the most recent summer when his father'd been shipped off to Azkaban for that Department of Mysteries debacle, leaving him and his mother to fend for themselves in the tangled web of being Death Eater hangers-on. Of course, he was a hanger-on no more; they'd taken care of that. He was a Death Eater, in it for the long haul, taking on the responsibility of being the man of the house at a respectable sixteen years of age. He looked around the supper table warily, scratching at the enchanted tattoo under the stiff fabric of his expensive pressed linen shirt.

"Don't fidget, Draco dear," his mother murmured distractedly, patting his arm.

"Yes, Mother," he replied dutifully, feeling dull. The Dark Lord had been staying with them, and he required ... attention. Draco was, if not accomplished in the traditional sense, a competently down and dirty Occlumens, thanks to his aunt. And the Dark Lord wasn't particularly attractive or beholden to certain standards of hygiene; it took a lot of effort to put up those walls and partition off Draco's disgust, lest he be tarred and feathered for not worshipping at his feet the way the older members of the club did. They'd had years to be awed by him, and he probably hadn't looked like some weird flat-nosed creep back then. Now, though - Draco glanced up to his father's chair at the head of the table, where the flat-nosed creep sat like he owned the place. He didn't! He didn't. Draco gripped the table cloth under the table and looked away again hastily. Disgusting, but oh so powerful. He saw it in the regal way the creature that was the Dark Lord sat, surveying all of his lands and slaves.

It was power Draco would have wanted, once. Still did, honestly, but not with all the _work_ that was apparently involved. He was getting a headache.

"Draco dear," his mother murmured again, glancing up at the head of the table nervously. "Do keep your head." There was a hint of threat behind those words, and it pained him to hear it. She'd taken over Father's sternness in his absence and Draco didn't like it a bit.

"Apologies, Mother," he demurred, suitably chagrined. "I'm not feeling particularly well."

Narcissa Malfoy's brow creased and she patted his arm again. "Have you taken your tonic today?"

Draco shook his head shortly and looked into his lap. "I... I forgot," he lied. His mother never could tell when he lied. Right on cue, his nervous stomach caught up with him and he swallowed hard, once. She was a delicate, fragile woman, but she was still a mother, so she wasted no time sensing impending disaster. While Draco fought off nausea and the fuzzy feeling of his skin getting far too warm in anticipation of a horrible embarrassing bout of sickness, he was dimly aware of her fluttering hands over his forehead and pleading voice. That alone made his stomach twist - that his beautiful mother had to beg for the privilege of minding her own son. Draco squeezed his eyes shut as the world gave a playful little spin. He clutched at her hand and a moment later, felt himself getting hoisted to his feet.

"Get some rest, Draco," she commanded softly, swiping a kiss over his clammy forehead. He nodded, and her hand slipped out of his as one of the Dark Lord's henchmen wheeled him out of the room by way of a ham-sized fist around his upper arm. He grunted a little at the fast movement, but only got shaken in response to his complaint, which didn't help one little bit. As the dining room doors swung shut after them, he heard the Dark Lord's low, hissing voice say something made incomprehensible by distance, followed by laughter around the room.

Sorry Mother.

"Wake up, kid." The henchman shook him again and Draco bit back a groan, pulling them both to a full stop in order to get his stomach under orders. When he glanced up, he nearly lost it completely, but managed instead to wrench his arm out of Fenrir Greyback's grasp and back away a step. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked away, heaving great breaths. God, Greyback was disgusting. The werewolf grinned, well, wolfishly. "Usually I have to talk about eating babies or something to get a reaction like that, Drakey-kins," he growled, taking a step toward him.

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. If he'd known then - and now - Get a grip! He backed up another step and ended up with his back against the hallway wall. "I don't need a minder," he spat, making to move past and leave the werewolf behind.

Greyback chuckled darkly and came after him, draping a heavy arm over the tall teen's shoulders and pulling him close like a chummy friend. Draco stumbled with the surprise and immediate proximity of diseased breath and disregarded cleanliness. Greyback kept him standing until he got his feet back under him, which was small relief. As embarrassed as he might have been to fall on his arse in his own home, far worse was the notion of being close personal friends with the fiendish werewolf who bragged about eating children. "Let's just say, you aren't exactly trusted."

Draco gulped involuntarily. His failure on the tower - it had planted seeds of doubt among the other death eaters. People who couldn't be trusted often ended up dead in their sort of company. "Fine," he said, ducking out of Greyback's one armed embrace. "Let's just go."

Greyback chuckled again and followed after him all the way up the spiral staircase, past the gaudy gilt serpent statue on the landing, past Father's trophy room - Draco suppressed a shudder of guilt and shame at having failed to take on the responsibilities of the man of the manor - and to the end of the east wing corridor, where his rooms were. Draco wobbled realistically, exaggerating his health only a little while Greyback watched -

And then followed him into the little sitting room ante-chamber of his bedroom. Draco turned and frowned. "Was there something else, _Mister_ Greyback," he sneered, feeling a little more like himself.

Greyback stalked around the room and picked at his teeth while he pawed through Draco's personal effects. "Just figured I'd make sure the little lamb is quite all right before tottering back to the dreadfully boring grownups," he replied sweetly.

Draco swallowed his response and stalked into his bedroom, through that and straight into his private lavatory, where he loosed his tie and splashed cool water on his face. Greyback was visible in the mirror, sorting through his top dresser drawer behind him in the bedroom. The cool water wasn't helping. He didn't have to fake feeling sick; his face looked unprettily haggard, pale and drawn. The Dark Lord had to know - but he couldn't, if he wanted to keep his mother alive. God, oh God...

And a moment later, his knees hit the plush bathroom mat with a thud and he was leaning over the toilet bowl, dry heaving. He must have cried out or whimpered or something, because Fenrir Greyback was at the door in an instant, looking unsettlingly excited.

"Make yourself useful," Draco bit out, squeezing his eyes shut against the headache sickness caused. "Fetch my tonic."

"Your wish is my command, _Young _Malfoy," Greyback growled unkindly.

It'd be too late, Draco thought. Even if he drank it now, not enough time to prevent him being sick. Which was fine. Because it meant he'd be spared another supper with their Company. And even as he thought on it with satisfaction, the moment came and he threw up into the toilet, heaving and crying without meaning to, the taste of bile and blood in his mouth. The Medi-Witch had said "ulcer, from stress," while she gave him and his mother the hairy eyeball for the crime of being Malfoys, and prescribed him a tonic to take twice a day. It hadn't taken him long to discover that the second dose had to come before dinner, or there would be disastrous consequences.

"Here," Greyback said gruffly, leaning over slightly to see Draco's alibi for himself. He sniffed reproachfully, a delicate gesture which a healthier Draco would have mocked on a hulking mass that disgusting. "Coming back down?"

"No, I don't think so," Draco mumbled, leaning his cheek against the cool porcelain seat, limply accepting the little bottle with his tonic in it.

"Fine." Greyback stepped away, but a moment later, his gross head was back in the doorway. "You'd think Lucius Malfoy's son would have a stronger stomach," he suggested. "Or maybe you take after your mother. Pretty."

He was gone before Draco could get the energy to launch himself at the werewolf's throat. Greyback could have taken several weeks to leave and still have managed to do it before Draco mustered that much bluster, but still. That he left half a second after saying it left Draco feeling like he really would have leapt to his mother's defence if only given a couple more seconds to do it in. He sighed heavily and stayed where he was, head lolling against the nice, cool porcelain, tonic bottle rolling from lax fingers onto and across the floor.

Throwing up always made him feel worse, sicker. From embarrassment, from shame, from dread that his father would find out. For the most part, though, he'd been a child with generic child illnesses, and then he'd been older and fine for years. When the final events of his sixth year came to fruition and vomit finally brought up pink, his mum had got worried rather than embarrassed, although she still didn't call their family physician and had trusted some... common Medi-Witch to tend him. She loved him, he'd told himself then. Just didn't want to take chances. Just didn't want to give anyone the opportunity to – while they were in limbo, because of his actions, because of his father's failure, because… Because she was embarrassed and hoped no one would recognise them under the minor glamour she'd effected.

Draco dragged himself out of the lavatory after a couple more bouts of the dry heaves brought up nothing. He snagged his tonic and downed a swallow without measuring, then tottered into his room and stripped to nothing, thinking over his options. Life was so different with all of these "family friends" over all the time. When Father was home and they lived alone on their Manor, life was predictable, for the most part. He knew when he'd be summoned for appointments - tutors, assignations - or when dinner was, or when he was expected to do things without being asked, or even which things he could skive off of without being punished. But Father was in Azkaban, and the Dark Lord was sitting in his seat at dinner, laughing at his mother when he couldn't sit down to dinner without getting sick.

So... he was supposed to be resting. No one could complain if he changed into pyjamas and slipped into bed. Even if he were summoned again, it would be all right. The house elves couldn't always be trusted to know the state of affairs, but he chose to think they knew what they were doing when he found that his favourite black silk pyjama bottoms had been laid out on the bed with a comfortable tee shirt.

He was half asleep when a weight settled on his bed next to him. He groaned irritably when a hand cupped his cheek.

"Shh, my darling," his mother murmured.

Draco blinked himself fully awake and recognized her by the halo of long blonde hair backlit by the moonlight through his window. "Mother?" he whispered. Then, in wide awake panic:

"What's happened? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, darling," she said, sounding dreamy. "I'm sorry to wake you up like this."

She sounded sad. Draco frowned. "Don't apologize, Mother," he murmured, flushing in embarrassment. "It doesn't suit you."

She smiled at him and smoothed his hair over his ear. "Draco..."

Draco swallowed, feeling dread twist in his stomach. "M-mum?"

"Your father's escaped from Azkaban."

Draco's mouth went dry. "Escaped?" he said, more timidly than he'd meant to. Escaped, past tense, not escaped and failed and was killed. Not escaped and was recaptured. Escaped. He was elated and terrified at the same time. His mother knew it.

"Don't worry, darling," she said. He hated when she said Darling so often; it meant she was softening the blow to come.

"What's wrong then?"

She frowned, lines creasing on her face. She was older than he was used to imagining her, age etched into her face by the trials of these last couple of years. God, he thought uncharitably, I hope I age better than that. "Your father's a good man," she started hesitantly. "When he comes back..."

Light dawned slowly through Draco's sleep-fuzzed brain. "He'll be changed," he finished for her. "We can deal with it." He tried to sound reassuring. "Everything'll be fine, mum. I'll take care of it."

"He wasn't always..." she began again, and Draco furrowed his brows.

"It's okay." _What_ was okay, he didn't know yet. There was something sinister in her voice and he didn't like it.

"It isn't," she said, nearly pleading with him. In the moonlight, he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes and sat up.

"Mum, what's wrong. Stop talking around everything."

"Never you mind, darling," she said, backing off in response to the fervour in his voice. He grabbed her arm when she said "darling" again and she looked at him with wide eyes. When did he become a violent son? God. He pulled his hand away hastily and dropped it into his lap, ashamed.

"What's going to happen?" he muttered.

"Nothing," she soothed. "Everything's all right. When your father comes home..."

When Father comes home, nothing will be all right, he didn't say. She didn't add, Everything will be different, and he'll be a different person, maddened by his time in Azkaban. He didn't nod sadly and agree, saying, He'll be worse, won't he? He didn't throw his arms around his mother's neck and weep into her bosom like a four year old. She didn't rub his back and shush him and reassure him that they'd be okay, that his failures wouldn't be held against him.

Instead, they sat there in the moonlight, son like mother, both pale and white-blond and worried and quiet, for another twenty minutes before she leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "Keep your health a secret, darling," she murmured. "Father won't be pleased."

"Yes, Mother," he agreed dully.


	2. Charity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco and a team of evil-doers go undercover.

His father was due back home two days later, and it meant Draco'd go from being able to skip two or three dinners a week to not being able to skip any, and having to have them with his father present. Wonderful: double the gut-twisting fun. He anticipated the day with dread and the kind of nervous excitement that the medi-witch had said was precisely the worst kind of excitement for his weak stomach. He double-dosed himself without telling anyone and tried to keep his mouth shut most of the time.

So when the Dark Lord summoned him into a private meeting after breakfast with five or six other low-level Death Eaters, he was nervous enough to throw up, but admirably did not. He was so cocky about not throwing up that he had to bite back the first smart-ass quip that tugged at his lips, so as to prevent his own Death. Generally speaking, junior Death Eaters who entered secret meetings by saying "So what's up, V-dawg" in an annoying American accent did not last long. There'd be questions about where he picked up American accents and things, and he couldn't rat out his mates rebelliously tuning in Muggle radio on the wireless without getting them killed or transfigured or something.

So instead, Draco sat somewhere in the middle of the lot of them, trying not to stand out in the group - though it was his house, and he was impeccably dressed, comparatively, and he had that cursed head of shining blond hair, and the others kept looking at him like he was going to drag them all down with him.  
He grinned smugly at them; he was the youngest one there. He tried to pretend it was because he rated entry so much earlier than they had, because he was _better_ and not because the Dark Lord was trying, once again, to off him to punish Lucius. How bittersweet, if he were to die on an errand his father should have been running, on the very day the man was due back.

It was unfortunate the others weren't frightened of his name any more. No one respected one of the oldest wizarding families on record, and some part of Draco felt sick that something that had been ingrained in him from birth could be so quickly proven false. He made a note to bring it up to his father some day. He could see it; "Father, why is it you always said we were better because we had respect and wealth and lineage, but now none of those things seems to matter?" And his father would say ... what? Oops, not the time to think of it. He blanked his mind and shoved those thoughts off into the background, visualizing the maze-like black box as Aunt Bella had taught him to. Providing a mental box sitting in the middle of his mental landscape, she said, was like showing the master lockpick the safe and conveniently leaving the room for twenty minutes. Better to have a maze, dead ends with genuinely emotional leads - "remember your hellhound, Draco love, and put it at the end of a path. The intruder will follow your sorrow, love, all the way to nowhere." Only Bella would call him "love" so many times in one breath; only Bella would consider the sadness a six year old feels at losing a pet a path to "nowhere."

Nevertheless, Draco had littered his mind with such dead ends, and it helped him profoundly in his everyday dealings, even when full-on Occlumency would have been overkill. No one could have guessed, for example, that he was as humiliated at Potter's first rebuff six years ago as he'd really been. It was easy to sneer and laugh it off, especially with the Weasel giving him such ready material for jokes that would have made his friends laugh. No one could have guessed that he'd - well, no one would, ever. Draco pushed those things into corners in the farthest reaches of the maze and faced front, blanking his face.

"It is time to prove yourselves, my friends," Voldemort rasped, spreading his arms beneficently. "A first mission, for some of you. I trust you to handle it well."

Draco felt eyes on him. For some of these people, he was certain to be known as the young Death Eater who'd made the infiltration of Hogwarts possible. He felt surprisingly little pride about it.

"Undoubtedly, many of you have read a recent article in the Prophet," the Dark Lord continued, holding up a copy of the offending rag. "Your orders are to track and apprehend the author of this article and detain her for questioning. Snape."

Professor Snape swept to the Dark Lord's side and Draco realised with a start that he'd been in the room the entire time, unobtrusive and watchful. Dread dropped into his stomach at the memories seeing him again invoked of that night flight from the tower after he'd... killed Dumbledore. Draco tried to be invisible while the Professor's gaze swept the assembled team.

"Two of you have had experience carrying out the Dark Lord's orders," he intoned imperiously, the way he used to frighten Longbottom in Potions, oh so long ago. "Young Master Malfoy and Mister Aidleroy, there." He nodded at the two of them, and Aidleroy, a stubby looking fellow, beamed around the room. Draco sneered at everyone for good measure, since being invisible clearly wasn't working.

"Won't she have bodyguards?" one of the newer recruits piped up.

"Indeed," Professor Snape agreed flatly. "I suggest you plan accordingly. Here is your intelligence." He dropped a thick packet of parchment onto the conference table. "Master Malfoy, if I might have a word?"

Draco glanced up at the Dark Lord, who was consumed with surveying his property again, and then back at Snape before he nodded and broke away from the pack to meet him a few paces away.

"Yes, sir?" he said meekly.

Snape frowned. "Your attitude leaves something to be desired. Are you feeling quite all right?"

Draco raised his brows. It was wholly unlike Snape to ask after one's health, but perhaps he had heard, possibly from his mother... Of course. He'd be worried that Draco's health might interfere with the mission. "I'm quite well," he reassured, trying to perk up and look as excited as the rest of the team.

"Rather," Snape purred dangerously, then changed the subject. "You are, despite being an arrogant prat and far too young and airheaded for any kind of intense mission, the most qualified of this bunch to run one, much as it pains me to admit."

Draco tried not to pale. _Run_ a mission? No way. Already done it, don't want to try another. But saying "the last one nearly killed me and wrecked my sixth year marks" wouldn't earn him any good points for his "attitude," so he just clenched his jaw and nodded. "Yes, sir," he bit out, allowing himself to look annoyed. Attitude _that_.

"I would suggest caution, a distraction, and a bit of Malfoy charm. I trust you remember how to be charming?"

"Charming..." Draco repeated stupidly.

"It's that bit wherein you smile and ladies do what you ask them to," Snape purred again. "I would, of course, have no experience in this arena, but I expect you take after your father."

Draco winced. He hadn't meant to, but the mention of his father was sort of a low blow. He let it steady his resolve. Win this, and his nigh-disastrous behaviour over the last year could be forgiven. He grinned at Snape and cocked his head, which felt nice and familiar. "Of course I do," he assured him. "If you'll excuse me, I've a mission to run."

"Indeed you do," Snape replied coolly, then inclined his head once, and escorted his Lord out into the drawing room for refreshments.

##

"I'm telling you, this is the best plan," Draco said again, huffing loudly. Snape's little jibe had done wonders for his resolve. What was he good at, if not proving he was better than the rest? "Do you want to listen to me, or to wonder-dough there?" Okay, so his powers of insult were rusty. Wonder-dough did him the favour of at least looking upset, his little pudge face screwing up like he was only just getting the joke.

Aidleroy cocked his head. He was in his twenties and had had one mission before, some nothing mission involving torching a Muggle bus that hadn't required planning or resulted in anything important happening. Whereas _he_ had single-handedly unleashed a horde of Death Eaters into one of the most heavily protected estates in all of wizarding Britain.

"Setting a Muggle bomb in her carbomile-"

What was wrong with these people? Did Aidleroy go to the same lessons in Muggle artifice that Weasley Senior had?

"Just _car_," Draco corrected firmly, "and no, it won't. You'll kill her, and our task is to capture her. Alive." He looked at a frowning Aidleroy. "In order to question her?"

"Fine," Aidleroy huffed. "So explain it again."

Draco blew out a breath. "We have to take care of the guards that are probably with her, because they can always just latch on if we Portkey or Apparate her away. We'll need a distraction for them. And then we'll need to trick her, so she won't Apparate herself away before we can jinx her, which we can't do in public, obviously. And we can't be us. And we can't use Polyjuice, because they've put detectors in all of the public buildings." It was easy to plan things when he thought about them like potions - a dreadfully boring class, but useful for honing those acute planning skills so necessary in the course of a life of evil. List all the things that can't work, and why, and you get the things that can, necessarily.

Snape would be proud, he found himself thinking in embarrassment, that he'd put his advice to use. Caution, distraction, and charm.

"And what do you suppose we do, then?" said Ethan Park, a slim kid a couple of years older than Draco at least.

"Old fashioned disguises," he said simply. "A glamour for each of us - you... _do_ know how to perform a glamour, right?"

The lads nodded hesitantly, but he'd calculated that the one lady amongst them would lend her skills. Girls always knew glamouring better than gents, a gross stereotype Draco was only too happy to find proved out in this case.

Lydia Fentel set to work designing the glamours for the other four men while Draco briefed them on the plan.

"It's simple, but it'll work," he said. "We cannot be Death Eaters out there. Not even for the distraction. It'd put the guards on alert. It's got to be a generic, run of the mill ... mugging, or something. Just try not to look evil, all right? Better yet, stage a rescue and call the guards over to help." He looked at Lydia. "You'll be rescued."

"And where'll you be?" Aidleroy sneered.

"I'll be getting the goods," Draco replied with a satisfied grin. A simple plan, but effective. It'd work.

##

According to the intelligence Snape had given them, Charity Burbage ran a pretty well-worn path between her home, her temporary office at the Prophet, the day school where the lower and middle class wizards sent their children before age eleven, and her gym. School in summer was an abominable device, Draco thought lazily, not even trying to blend in with the other four gents he'd told to "mill about like common folk." No dark cloaks or sinister smirks or anything. They'd even procured Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tee shirts, so as to truly play the do-gooder part, even though he was the only one still school-aged.

Draco required the most intensive glamour, because his face was so very Malfoy, not to mention the hair. He was a brunette for the while, and had freckles and more almond shaped brown eyes which Lydia had assured him completely transformed his face into something unrecognizable. Indeed, even his partners in crime kept doing double takes to be sure they hadn't lost him and picked up some actual Gryffindor straggler. He found the newfound anonymity refreshing and spent a couple of minutes imagining himself into some other life, perhaps that of a publisher or philanthropist or eccentric. Eccentric, in particular, sounded quite the life.

He watched the school distractedly while his "mates" played quaffles and bludgers on the second practice court. He shouldn't have been, he knew. If anyone was watching, and after her article, they were bound to be, they'd know something was up. He needed to peel off realistically, so anyone watching the unfolding events wouldn't question a party of four where five ought to be.

"I'm off, lads," he said suddenly, standing and stretching. "Mum's got supper on early, on account of Grandad's got his company over tonight. I've gotta pick up the sundries." He grinned. "If Lacey asks, tell her to come round back, and I'll sneak her in." That was sufficiently Gryffindorish, breaking rules, brazenly boasting about it.  
As coached, the other four waved at him cheerfully from their brooms. In another four minutes, "Lacey" would show up asking after him, and them in Hufflepuff shirts would make a bit of a stink about breaking the rules, and them in Gryff shirts would laugh it off and make suggestive comments while she tittered stupidly. Meanwhile, he'd be placing himself strategically elsewhere.

Like clockwork, Burbage appeared at 2:30 in the afternoon, toting her son, a boy of about thirteen who shouldn't have been in lower school at all. Draco frowned. A decoy? Was that even Charity Burbage? He tensed, ready to give the abort signal. In the near distance, the supposed Burbage stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, kneeling in front of her maybe-son to smooth his cloak over his shoulders. The boy stared into space vacantly, but when she turned his face to her and asked her question again, he grew animated, waving his hands a little too much.

God, the boy was daft, Draco realised suddenly. Her son was still in lower school because he was slow. Balls. And why did it matter? Because they were about to take that boy's mother from him, and visions of just a few nights earlier when his own mum had caressed his cheek and told him that everything was going to be all right -

He was on his knees a moment later, resisting the urge to be sick. It was just a learned reflex anyway - a short mental step from stomach pain to the urge to vomit. If he tried to resist it, he'd succeed. So he breathed deeply and got his head back on and used the wall he'd been leaning against - _casually_ \- to stand back up.

Had to do it. There wasn't a choice. The boy'd be taken care of, he was certain. The _good guys_ would ensure that he had means and support, at least until they were defeated and the Dark Lord took care of him in his own way. There, that was the proper attitude. And if it wasn't enough, all he had to do was imagine old Voldy's reaction if he were to flake out. In fact, the Dark Lord had probably put him on this mission _because_ he thought he'd flake out, or get distracted by the circumstances and screw up. No one believed he was evil any more. It was annoying. Or maybe it was annoying that no one _evil_ thought he was evil, and everyone good did.

Draco sighed and surveyed the scene. There were other people "milling about" as well. Her guards, undoubtedly. They were quite a bit less well-hidden than his lads, of course. It was so much harder to disguise "strident do-gooder" than it was to hide "attempted evil-doer," if only because evil chaps often played quaffles and bludgers anyway, so it didn't require acting talent.

On cue, "Lacey" showed up, asking after him. The whoops and cheers distracted the watching guards only a little, which was fine. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped out onto the sidewalk, exuding worry as he swept past her toward the front doors. He stopped short, then turned to her, realistically nervous.

"Sorry," he muttered, shoving his dark hair out of his eyes gracelessly. "Only, you haven't seen a young boy run by here, have you? About eight? My brother."

Charity Burbage glanced at a couple of the loitering strangers who might or might not have been sent there to guard her, then back at Draco's worried face. "Sorry?"

"He's in lower school here - he's supposed to meet me at the corner at two, only I was running late today on account of our mum wanted me to run some errands and I got held up with my mates-" he babbled, allowing himself to get worked up by his very real nervousness. He flapped a hand like he was trying to find a word for something. "Anyroad, mum'll kill me - he's a squib, or we think he is, maybe, so school in the summer, I know, but it's not safe for squibs, you know?" He glanced around like horrible evil squib-haters might be along any moment to nab his non-existent little brother. When he looked back at her, he was looking into the eyes of a worried mother, caught on the ragged edges of his story and just begging to be kidnapped in exchange for her selfless concern. Draco took a breath, then took the plunge. "Will you - sorry - could you help me look for him?"

Charity Burbage knitted her brows and tsked, dusting off her son's shoulder again. "Of course we'll help, won't we Forester?" Forester turned wide, vacant looking eyes on Draco, and Draco swallowed roughly. Sorry, chappo. "Come along then, where would he go?"

"Well, there's a park he likes, over on the other side of the block. I appreciate this. You don't know how much."

And that's about when "Lacey" got scooped up by a snickering Gryffindor on his broom. She squealed happily for about four seconds, before she started screaming. Draco turned for the look of it and pulled the photo out of his pocket in case he had to step up the timetable.

Lydia was hanging from one of the goal loops. When none of the lads in the air went to her aid, the three most likely agents of Light ran toward her to help. Draco turned back to Charity Burbage, who continued watching over his shoulder.

"He can't have gone far," he continued, starting off again. He stopped when she snagged his sleeve.

"What do you suppose..." she murmured, and Draco turned. His heart dropped into his stomach.

The boys on his team had landed and were ... talking with Lydia's would-be rescuers. After a moment of discussion, one of them turned in his direction and pointed.  
Shit. Shit shit. A mission to kill him, obviously. How could he have been so stupid?

"What...?" he said stupidly, his mouth clearly possessed of better instincts than his ruinous brain. "Oh no ... they're after him," he improvised.

His confusion and utter dread, together with the sight of three grown men and four strong lads barrelling down upon them, were enough for Charity Burbage. The curses whizzed past them both as they turned to flee. They were barely two steps into it when the stunner hit him. Draco fell forward with a strangled cry and grunted when his elbow and then temple collided with the concrete sidewalk. He whimpered embarrassingly as the darkness closed in.

##

Charity Burbage froze. On the one hand, there were at least seven men headed toward her, apparently united and looking none too gentle. On the other, the poor young man with freckles and such a worried, trusting face was lying unconscious on the ground. She'd gotten a tip that there'd be trouble today, and she knew there were people there to protect her, supposedly. But trouble that came looking for her would just as likely delight in harassing a boy with a squib brother; she couldn't just leave him there.

She took a deep breath. Then, with a hand on her son and on the boy on the ground, she Apparated all three of them to the hide-away the Ministry had secured for her. Apparate-in only, she'd been told. No one could come in and take her out that way, not without raising alarms. She collapsed next to the dark-haired boy where he lay in the middle of her temporary sitting room, worn completely out from triple Apparating on a moment's notice.

"It's all right now," she said softly as the boy began to stir fitfully. "Forester, put a kettle on for Mummy, will you?" She watched after him as he left the room, then turned back to her visitor. She tested his temperature with the knuckles of one hand, resting them against his flush cheek gently. "What horrible luck for you today, dear boy," she fretted. "Of all of the mothers in the world to ask to help you..."

The boy shifted a little, eyelids fluttering. He groaned and one hand sought the opposite elbow in apparent pain. She moved quickly to run her hands down his torso looking for injury with an efficiency borne from motherhood. She was just deciding to throw embarrassment to the wind and take off his jacket when the point of a photo in the pocket stuck her in the thumb. She pulled it out gingerly and ran a couple of fingertips over the young face grinning in the photo, a white-blond boy who bore a resemblance to the one on her floor.

"My brother," the boy murmured breathily, reaching up to touch the back of the photo. "Felix."

With a sudden sucking sound, Charity Burbage felt the familiar tug of something at her navel, squeezing her entire body through the eye of a needle only to deposit it who knew where. When she landed, it was on her kettle, and she had no time at all to react before she was set upon.


	3. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which consequences are ignored and lives are gotten back to, and tiny sandwiches are administered.

Draco awoke some time later. At nighttime, which he knew because his drapes hadn't been pulled closed and the night sky was visible through his bedroom window. He groaned and tried to sit up. His head was stuffed with cotton. His arm ached.

"That's my boy," his father said from a chair across the room.

"Whafoos..." Draco slurred, then winced. How stupid. Damn it, damn it.

His father chuckled. "You've made me very proud, Draco." He got up and crossed the room, tall and graceful and looking none the worse for his time in Azkaban.

"Thank you, sir," Draco breathed, blinking himself awake quickly. His father's weight dropped onto the edge of his bed. "The plan worked, mostly. I had... contingencies..." He frowned. "Did... he..."

Lucius tilted his head. "Whatever you're going to say, Draco, don't. What I can tell you is that our esteemed Lord did not order those young men to turn on you. They've paid for their foolishness, rest assured." God, he looked so... happy. Lucius Malfoy was practically beaming with pride. Draco couldn't help smirking a little. "Possibly the only thing that spared their lives," he continued, "is that your plan succeeded even in spite of their treachery. Good work, my boy."

"Succeeded," Draco repeated stupidly. "I don't really remember..."

"Banged your head in the process." His father frowned. "You really must be more careful."

"Okay," Draco agreed. His father shot him a look. "Yes, sir," he amended. "Could I..." Dinner hours had always been strict, but it was worth a shot. "Could I get the elves in with something to eat? I'm nearly done in with hunger."

Lucius Malfoy winked at his son. "We can bend the rules just this once," he promised, and stood to leave.

"Father," Draco said hastily. "Is Mum... Where's Mum?"

Lucius' grin softened. "She's gone to bed near two hours ago, son. I'm afraid your antics have quite worn her out. Be kind to her for a few days, will you? Else she'll be a bear to get on with."

Draco raised his brows. "Then you... waited for me to wake up...?"

"Of course I did." His father quirked a brow at him. "My only son, whom I haven't seen in nearly a year, succeeds in his first mission as the leader of a team! I had to pass on my congratulations."

Draco risked another greedy grin. "Thank you," he said again, trying to stay cool and collected.

Lucius smiled and swept toward the door, where he stopped again and looked at Draco over his shoulder. "One might think you're trying to show up your own Father, at this rate," he said softly, and just like that, Draco's good mood was demolished by the stone of dread the words dropped into his stomach. As with most things his father said, it wasn't the content, it was the delivery. It wiped the smile right off his face, and he paled, suddenly thinking twice about getting the elves in with dinner.

"Of course not," he said, sounding a little forced. His mouth was dry. "Good night, Father."

"Good night, Draco."

##

He did manage to eat, of course. Without him even asking, two house elves appeared with his dinner, piping hot, freshly prepared on a silver tray. The stone in his stomach vanished instantly at the sight of the tiny roast bird, dressed in raspberry sauce and surrounded by delicately steamed vegetables he couldn't remember the French names for, no matter how often Mother drilled him on them.

"And wine," he murmured dreamily, reaching for the goblet. Ahhh, home. Where he could drink wine whenever he liked and be served with style and attention in his rooms. All right, so it was a little smidget of wishful thinking; Mother'd have had an attack if she'd seen him take supper in his rooms. He pulled on the goblet daintily. Father had ordered it, he could tell. A victory toast in the Malfoy fashion. No need to be so obvious about touching glasses or talking over points of planning style. Just a glass of fine red. Draco smiled wistfully.

_One might think you're trying to show up your own Father..._

Draco froze, rolling the second swallow of wine over his tongue. Could he - wrong question. _Would_ he? He bravely swallowed the mouthful and closed his eyes, picturing his father, smiling and proud. "My only son," he repeated very softly. "You've made me very proud." He stared into his goblet then and willed himself to trust. And failed. "You're..." he said aloud, to the one elf still attending him. "Liddy, right?"

"S'right Master Draco sir!" she piped, bowing and scraping. She dropped the silverware she was polishing in order to wring her ears under her chin. "What can Liddy be doing for Young Master Draco, sir?"

Draco waved her off, annoyed. "Answer me a question," he demanded. After she'd nodded and bowed again, but before she managed to open her mouth to spew more nonsense, he continued, "Did you pour this wine yourself? Straight from the bottle?"

She nodded, eyes wide and nervous. "Liddy-!" Draco leaned over and physically put his finger to her mouth to shush her. She shut up and, if possible, her eyes got wider.

"The bottle you got yourself from the wine cellar?"

She nodded again, then shook her head, then cried out and dropped to her knees, where she started bashing her head into the floor, a dull thud on his thick carpet. Draco crooked a brow. He'd fallen on that floor before; it was nearly impossible to hurt oneself without first pulling up the two inches of plush carpet that ran nearly the length and breadth of the room. He let her go for a minute and a half before he sighed loudly and she got the idea that she wasn't actually accomplishing the self-flagellation she could enjoy in her usual exquisitely tiled kitchen environs.

"The bottle from the wine cellar," he said again. "Who fetched it?" He tried to keep his voice kind. House elves were unbearably annoying, but if they thought you were angry, it was Hell and a half just trying to get them to utter a complete sentence, least of all cart away your used dishes.

"Master said not to say!" she shrieked, sobbing. She set about bashing her head into the pillowy carpet again, but this time, Draco found no mirth at the sight. He sat feeling decidedly cold there in his warm house, windows thrown open to catch the summer air. He got goose pimples and had to remember to breathe.

His father... hadn't poisoned him. It wasn't possible. Probable - it wasn't _probable_. He set the glass back down onto the silver tray delicately, eyeing it. Then he looked at the glorious golden baked bird with its dressings; raspberry anything was his favourite, which he tried to remember whether Liddy knew. Dratted elves. His father knew, of course - there'd been that incident the summer he turned ten, with the raspberry bush and, well it wasn't worth thinking about.

"Oh God," he breathed. His head ached, and he had to fight off a bout of nausea when he realised he had no idea whether it was because he'd cracked it a good one during the mission or because red wine always gave him a headache or because his _father_ had _poisoned_ him. "Oh God," he nearly sobbed, dropping his face into his hands. His appetite was gone.

"Master Draco is needing something else?" Liddy said timidly, postured awkwardly in mid-head-bash. She blinked up at him with wide eyes.

_No, you stupid treacherous fiend!_ his mind replied. His tongue felt too thick to work properly. Instead, he just looked up at her from his fingers and then closed his eyes again to massage the bridge of his nose with the fingers of both hands while he tried to get his breathing under control. After a moment, he felt the slight weight of a person just about the size of a smallish house elf crawl up onto his bed.

Draco hadn't had tender moments with the house elves of Malfoy Manor. Generally speaking, they were terrified of him, and he didn't blame them. He'd had a habit of acting out against his father by mistreating them, and damned if they didn't seem to lap up the negative attention even as they scrambled out of a sullen or irritated young Draco's path. If he thought they had any sort of real emotions at all, he might have felt badly about it.

So when Liddy climbed up onto his bed without asking, or having been asked, rather, he looked up at her with distrust.

"Here," he said doubtfully. "What are you at?"

Liddy knelt on the bed in front of him, blinking her wide shining eyes at him. "Mistress said to give Young Master Draco a message."

The house elves were more afraid of his mother than they were of him, if only because she was an adult and could be as cold as ice if crossed. Draco was just a destructive puppy, compared to her. Sure, he'd been known to chase them around with burning sticks as a tot, but _she_ was the _Mistress_. Knowing that allowed Draco to feel some small amount of pity for Liddy.

"And it is...?" he prompted, wondering idly whether he could force his paranoia to extend as far as his mother. He couldn't, but it wasn't by a terribly comfortable margin. Stupid Voldemort.

Liddy looked nervous and wrung her hands around her ears even harder. The tips were turning pink. She closed her eyes and adopted a recitative pose that he remembered acutely from his own arduous pre-Hogwarts tutoring. It looked stupid and overdone on the wrinkly, malproportioned house elf, but if he sneered even a little, she'd waffle and waver and it'd be another thirty minutes before he'd get his mother's message.

"Draco, darling-"

That familiar dread the word induced tugged at his navel like a portkey made of vomit, but he schooled his face into sternness as Liddy continued obliviously.

"-I am so happy that you are all right. Now that your father is back at home, I hope you will make an effort to put your mind back to your studies. I have arranged for you to continue at Hogwarts in the fall, rather than stay at the Manor; our Lord requires that his followers be highly educated, intelligent wizards, and has graciously granted my request." Liddy heaved a great breath when she was finished, then leaned forward and took his limp hands from his lap while Draco stared at her, the revulsion slow in coming since it was playing second string to feverishly working out what his mother's message really meant. Before he could stop her, she'd brought his knuckles to her mouth and brush a kiss over them. Liddy looked up at him and held his hands between her own. "You are my beloved, only son."

Draco stared, and after a couple of drama-laden seconds, Liddy's eyes went wide and she jerked her hands back in the same movement that catapulted her off of his bed. She grabbed onto one of his bed posts and bashed her head into it a couple of times before he could get his head together to tear her away from it.

"Stop, you daft idiot!" he cried, tossing her to the floor. "You'll wake someone up!" Then he collapsed to his knees, suddenly overcome with weariness. There was no mistake about it; his wine had been dosed for sure. It was a distressingly similar feeling to that first week after coming home after... the Tower. He hadn't been able to sleep despite the exhaustion he suffered for his entire sixth year, and Professor Snape had given him something. But like his tonic, they'd kept that from Lucius - less a protection from his wrath and more a kindness to a crazed man in prison. Clearly, he'd found the Professor's supply.

Thank goodness he hadn't drunk the whole goblet. He would have, once. But he was soberer, now, and far more paranoid.

"Young Master Draco!" Liddy cried, wringing her hands. She righted herself and crawled over to him while he blinked stupidly at her.

"Liddy," he breathed. His head felt light, but he was still himself, still aware. Just felt freer, that's all. He wasn't giving in, because Malfoys don't. Grace under pressure, the best rise to the top, purity is everything. A thousand other platitudes that were easy to believe when you weren't kidnapping some slow kid's mother. He should have drunk it all. "Liddy," he said again, and she nodded eagerly. _Probably afraid I'll go spare and set her on fire or something._ "Can you fix me a sandwich?" he said, slurring a little.

She nodded. "Liddy can make any kitchen thing, Young Master Draco. Chicken? Ham? Cheese? Young Master-"

"Stop calling me that," he grumbled irritably, falling backward to sit on the floor against his bed. "I'm not young any more."

"As Y-... Master Draco wishes," she agreed, sounding glum. Just a little glutton for punishment, wasn't she? He was too tired to be overly annoyed.

"Cheese and pickle," he murmured, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, there was a plate set next to him on a little silver tray on the floor, sandwich thick with ham and cheese and pickle and lettuce and no tomato, and just a little raspberry dressing, which worried him, but it was decidedly a different sauce than what had been on his bird earlier. And thick slices of seasoned bread. And a tall glass of milk, like he was ten. For a moment, he was incensed and looked around for Liddy to chide her. Hadn't he only _just_ said he wasn't young any more? His temper died when he saw her curled up in her tea towel next to his wardrobe, fast asleep.

Mother would have had a fit. The elves had a perfectly serviceable cupboard in a little building behind the house to sleep in, after all. Father might have certainly tossed the elf out and possibly beaten her for the insolence.

But Mother had sent an elf to kiss him good night, and Father had drugged his wine. So he ate his sandwich and let her sleep until he was done. Then he crawled over to Liddy and nudged her awake.

"Mum'll go spare if she finds you slept here," he said apologetically. "Sorry."

"Couldn't wake Y-... Master Draco, sir. So sorry, sir!"

Draco frowned in irritation. "I said it's all right!" he huffed, even though he hadn't said anything about it at all. "You just have to go to your own room now."  
She nodded with wide, fearful eyes and with a _pop_, was gone.

##

The next morning at Malfoy Manor was a bustling one. Draco customarily slept in over the summer - one of those things he knew he could get away with - but even he couldn't escape the crack of Apparating elves and the general murmur of Death Eaters in the halls. In _his_ halls, he thought with a stab of panic. What were Death Eaters doing in his wing?

Draco threw the blankets off himself and swung his feet out over the floor. He was still a little woozy from his _father's _attempt to _poison_ him, but he'd slept off most of it and felt strangely... fine. Like, his stomach felt fine, his head felt fine. His arm, when he stripped for a shower, was bruised, but didn't ache. He felt fine. In the light of day, the notion that his father had dosed him with a sleeping draught that Snape himself had brewed specifically _for_ him seemed a lot less sinister. It didn't exactly engender a wealth of trust, but it wasn't that bad.

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed in khakis and a long-sleeved black polo shirt with the Slytherin crest on the left breast and stood at the top of the grand staircase that led downstairs into the main house.

"All right, Draco?" a nameless death eater murmured up at him, out of breath not ten steps up. "I was just coming to fetch you for breakfast."

Draco smiled thinly at him, trying to place the face. It was unsettling having strangers in the house. Unsettling and irritating and threatening his newly-won good mood. He spread his hands to his sides to display his fully dressed, ready for breakfast self, and then gestured in front of him. "Shall we, then?"

"Draco, darling," his mother chimed once he was near enough to hear her without her having to raise her voice. He nodded, waited uncomfortably for Death Eaters to get the hell out of his way, and then went to her at the low end of the table, bending at the waist to kiss her on the cheek. She cupped his face in her palm before he could straighten all the way and looked into his eyes.

"Draco, darling," she murmured again.

Draco frowned. "Mum?" he said back, then glanced at the rest of their "family friends" assembling at the breakfast table. "Mother," he asserted then, standing up. He nodded at his Father on his other side and sat in the chair between them. Their "friends" milled about, snatching fruit and bowls of various imported cereals and tea, apparently never having had proper weekender breakfasts before. Draco frowned and tilted his head at the tableau, irritated at the lower class of wizard they'd been forced to take into their home, and therefore feeling just a bit more like himself. So he grinned and reached for a plated apple, the slices neatly piled and drizzled with honey.

His mother watched him, and he watched her watch him from the corner of his eye for a long moment before he just looked at her plainly, a brow arched in question.

"You haven't eaten," she murmured softly, leaning in.

"What?" he said stupidly, mouth suddenly dry.

"Liddy told me, darling," she murmured, even more quietly. She searched his gaze questioningly. "Are you ... feeling quite well...?"

Draco glanced away, not quite looking at his father, but acutely aware of his presence. He didn't answer quickly enough.

"Answer your mother, son," he said genially, but Draco knew that tone. It was the same sort of tone he used when speaking to those that should have known their betters but refused to acknowledge it. The tone he used when he knew something they didn't know he knew.

Draco faked a laugh, and it sounded genuine even to his own ears. Thank you, Aunt Bella, you crazy old bitch. "Liddy left a tomato on. You know how much I hate them." He looked at his father, brows together in apology. "Thank you for the choice of wine, Father. I'm afraid I was still a bit too woozy to drink it. 'Know your limits, my boy,'" he quoted, raising a finger in a passable imitation of Lucius that brought a smile to the elder Malfoy's face.

"Indeed," his father agreed, and poured him some orange juice.

Draco eyed it, then the apple his mother'd been so keen on him eating. Then he looked up at the rest of the table, where various of the Death Eaters glanced at him every so often with variations on the popular theme, "Malfoys and why they should die mysteriously while I get the credit."

Father wouldn't... All right. He might. In order to get back into the Dark Lord's good graces, he might – what was he considering! His own father? But Father wasn't... himself. He laughed like himself, at things Draco could reasonably predict he'd laugh at. But he had a manic look about him since getting back. His eyes didn't seem to rest on anything. Unless he was boring a hole into your soul with his gaze, he seemed to look right through you. It was unsettling, at best. At worst, he was a raging lunatic waiting for the right moment to start foaming at the mouth.

So… he might have possibly considered some horrible act of family disloyalty.

His mother, though, certainly wouldn't have poisoned his apple.

Unless Father had suborned her. Shit. Did she look entranced? Oh, who was he kidding? Narcissa Malfoy nee Black made it a point to look entranced and dreamlike, when she wasn't being severe and demanding. He swallowed nervously. Even if they hadn't done something untoward, someone else might have.

He must have been too obviously nervous.

"Don't worry, son," Lucius muttered, leaning in close enough that Draco felt his breath on his ear like a brand. "Everything's all right. We're coming back up."

Draco looked back at him in surprise. His father was smirking, that knowing smirk Draco modeled to a tee. _Don't worry, son. We're coming back up._ He didn't know where his father got that idea, what with all the looks trying to kill them, _him_ in particular, he didn't mind being fervent about pointing out. But if his father said it, he probably knew something Draco didn't, again.

He didn't end up being murdered at breakfast, which he was distressed to find was becoming a common way he'd started classifying days. Happily, every day thus far had that cheerful designation, so he went through lunch with a bit of confidence. Only a true low-life would murder someone at lunch.

_All of your "family friends" are _trying_ to be low-lives_, his backbrain insisted. He ignored it and spent the afternoon following his mother's orders; he had piles of make-up work from the sixth year that he'd missed due to "illness," plus summer essays and readings for his seventh year. He hadn't even started, because until that message from his mother, he'd assumed his school days were over.

Lucius sent him drinks, Narcissa sent him tiny sandwiches. The rest of the Death Eaters left him alone in the library, because, he thought, most of them probably couldn't read anyway. It was almost like his father'd never been arrested and the Dark Lord had never come back, and his family was safe and happy again.

"Let's have you a birthday party, Draco." His father leaned against a heavy bookcase laden with old tomes of magical lore.

Draco looked up, brows together. "My birthday was last month," he said cautiously. "I've already turned seventeen..."

Lucius smiled in understanding. "And I missed it," he said, stating the obvious. "You don't have to talk around it, son. Things have been set right. Our Lord has seen to it."

Draco nodded, sensing danger, but completely at sea when it came to the whole "from whence it comes" part. His father was starting to sound like Aunt Bella. All the same - "It's all right, Father," he assured him. "I don't need a party."

"And your sixteenth as well," Lucius mused, apparently ignoring him. "We'll get the decorators in, you think?"

Draco frowned. He wasn't trying to be selfless or grown-up about anything; having a birthday party when it wasn't your birthday was just ... _embarrassing_. And would stand a stark reminder to anyone who'd accept an invitation - thin on the ground as such people might be - that his father'd been arrested for mucking about with _the boy who lived_, Saint Potter, and had sat rotting in Azkaban for a year before "our Lord" had seen fit to get him out. Draco wasn't certain his ego could take much more disgrace. "Father, I-"

Lucius smiled wearily at him and sank into a thickly plush reading chair near the smallish ornate writing desk Draco customarily worked his studies in while at home. "Just something small then, perhaps," he interrupted. "Family - and family friends - only." He winked - again. It was disconcerting. "I remember being a boy, Draco. You don't want your fussy old mum and dad pattering over you in front of your friends. I understand. We'll keep it simple."

Draco swallowed. His father didn't understand him at _all_, but it really wouldn't do to enlighten him. _Oh yes, Father. You _do_ embarrass me, for failing, for getting caught. _And his father would say... Draco sighed. Who knew what his father would say, after everything. Instead, Draco nodded, affectless.

His father smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. Draco felt suffused with warmth again at the genuine pride and affection in his father's manner. "So, are there any close friends you'd like to send invitations to?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Anyone you can stand being seen with your parents in front of? That Miss Parkinson's a bit of a looker, isn't she? Are you two still..." He waggled his brows suggestively.

Draco made a face but took the opportunity to put some real thought into it, even though he was still planning to have Mother help him derail the whole party idea. Pansy was straight out. Crabbe and Goyle... he swallowed dryly. They weren't even really friends - just muscle. Muscle that hadn't been extremely friendly, of late. Nott? No... Zabini? Ah... no. The Greengrasses had remained cordial, but they weren't overly friendly with the rest of the "family friends." Draco sighed and shook his head. "They're all away for the summer," he lied. He'd alienated most of his House the year before by completely ignoring them, losing House points for poor school work, and then ultimately cementing his family's name at the very bottom of the list of Families That Haven't Screwed Up Too Badly. In fact, he might have knocked them completely off that list and onto a far more dangerous one.

"That's too bad," his father mused distractedly. He was quiet for a few more moments. Then, as suddenly as he'd shown up in the library doorway, he stood and excused himself. Draco sat watching the doorway for a long moment before bending his head back to the arduous task of rewriting an essay he'd completely ballsed up for Snape the previous year.

It wasn't like Snape to allow it, even for him, and he'd especially not expected it after Snape had had to come along and do his job for him up on the Tower. Mother'd probably gotten to him. He made a note to try to get away when they went shopping for his school books to pick something up for her in thanks. Funny to think, just a year and a half ago, he'd have sneered and considered it her duty to fix things like that up for him, and he'd have thought he deserved it, too. He'd been decisively reformed on that point, in the interceding months.  
He worked on his essays until evening, which he didn't even notice until there was a soft cough from the doorway.

Draco looked up, bleary-eyed from having reworked essays for God knew how many hours. "Professor?" he murmured, surprised.

"Mister Malfoy," Snape intoned smoothly.

Draco raised his brows. The professor clearly wasn't fond of being made to run errands. "Can I get you... something?" he said stupidly, glancing around at all the nothing there was to get. _Potions From the East? Perhaps a nice aged Necrology for the Overly Alive? Oh sorry, I'm afraid we're fresh out._

Snape raised a brow in reply. "That will not be necessary. Do join us in the Dining Room, if you can bear to tear yourself away from these more important things."

No need to be nasty, Draco thought, but only nodded with a touch of a smile. Snape was letting him make up essays, and he'd been taught manners, after all. He left his books open to their places and trotted out after the Potions Master. They were halfway through the wide foyer between wings when he remembered something.

"Professor," he said unsteadily. "I'm a little underdressed for supper. I'll just nip up and—"

Snape stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. You should have kept an eye on the time, Mister Malfoy." He leaned in close, his oily black eyes shining with ferocity. "Do you think," he said, his words dropping into place like carefully maneouvered pieces on a chess board, "that you can really afford to keep the Dark Lord waiting?"

Draco felt himself pale. "N-no, I don't suppose I can," he said, suddenly hoarse. Dark Lord, right. It was fine. Everything was fine. He skipped his morning tonic, and that'd been fine, right? And he probably hadn't had anything between yesterday's mission and that sandwich last night either, so he was probably fi -

Shit. Yesterday's mission. He looked up at Snape with wide eyes, but then hastily tried to school his expression, suddenly feeling sick. Shit shit shit - okay, it's fine. He turned away, intending to go against Snape's request after all, but the professor's hand was on his shoulder like a lead weight, and he stopped short. "Professor," he said weakly.

"Come along, Draco," Snape commanded, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He didn't have but a fleeting moment to consider how odd the gesture was before his whole attention was taken up with trying not to let fly the remains of the tuna paste and mustard he'd had for lunch.

He focused on breathing and didn't look around as Snape steered him toward the Dining Room. Just before entering, the Professor let go his shoulder and let him enter ahead of him, which, he supposed dully, was a bit of a kindness. He was far too old to require fetching; he knew what time supper was. Draco took his seat between his parents at the farthest end of the table from the Dark Lord and made the mistake of looking up.


	4. The Sun Through Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the jellyfish evolves a spine and is punished for his audacity.

"Draco."

The voice was firm, as was the stiff smack that followed it. Draco whined thinly as he wrested his eyes open.

And then drew his brows together. "Father? What happened?"

His father didn't look pleased. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind answering me that same question," he murmured dangerously. "Or if that's too difficult, try, 'Darling Draco, my only son, why do you insist on embarrassing this family time and time again with your spineless, weak-willed lack of composure?'" He smiled sweetly.

Draco frowned, incensed by his father's casual use of the word his mother had already soured for him. "_I've_ embarrassed us? I was _sixteen _when I managed to get that Muggle-loving headmaster killed, just as I was asked to. What have _you_ done?"

Lucius narrowed his eyes and a thrill of fear lit up in Draco's stomach. He sat up in his bed, to gain a sense of power he knew he didn't have. He continued, suddenly feeling foolhardy and suicidally giddy - much like a Gryffindor must often feel, his backbrain mused cheerfully. "Got yourself locked up because you couldn't handle a whelp who only just learned magic exists six years ago, that's what! You left us alone to clean up your mess, and I bet you were glad to have done! You got to sit in your safe little cell, hoping I could fix everything before you got back and had to try to do it yourself! Before you had to face the punishment for having _failed_!" The longer his ill-advised tirade went on, the faster his heart pounded. His father's face grew darker with anger at every venomous word, but still his mouth flapped rebelliously on. "But you aren't getting punished. Everyone knows he's trying to kill me because of you. He thinks it'll punish you, but he doesn't know you the way I do, _Father_. Look what you've gotten us involved in! Look what you've made me _do_-!"

The smack rang out in the room in the ensuing silence it had caused. Draco was still turned from it moments later, frozen in surprise and somewhat afraid to move again, lest Lucius go completely mad. Hadn't he only just the day before been wondering whether this man had drugged him? Hadn't he earlier _that day_ sensed the sort of undirected, troubling danger that his Aunt Bella wore like a perfume coming off his father? Stupid, stupid, and now-

Lucius massaged his knuckles, standing with his head cocked and watching Draco with the same sort of sneering consideration Draco had seen on him when dealing with a particularly troublesome house elf. Draco looked up at him askance, fear warring with the flush of anger building in his chest. He wasn't a child any more. He didn't have to stand for this. But the anger just wasn't strong enough, not with his father standing over him, looking so cool and composed and tall and _casual_ about it all. He managed to move, slowly, putting his hand to his cheek and testing the inside of his mouth with his tongue.

His father sighed dramatically. "Oh son," he said, his voice honeyed. He widened his eyes in what he probably thought was a passable imitation of Draco when he was angry. "Look what you've made me _do_." And then he turned on his heel and left, closing Draco's bedroom door behind him.

It was a long while before Draco finally decided to go prod at his face in the mirror in his private lavatory. He stripped and decided to make a bath of it after assuring himself that nothing was bruised or swollen. His father had always had a firm hand, if rarely employed, but Azkaban had clearly affected him after all, had either given him strength or leeched away whatever restraint had once kept his anger in check. The inside of Draco's cheek had only just stopped bleeding by the time the bath was drawn.

He was ten minutes into numbly sitting in the hot water before he had his minor breakdown. Even as he fumed and cursed the man who'd raised him, he felt the mortifying sting of tears pricking his eyes. He leaned his head back and sank into the warmth of the over-sized antique clawfoot tub and spent another fifteen minutes rehearsing what he should have said back to his father, massaging his jaw and generally feeling sorry for himself, morbidly replaying the events of the night over and over in his mind's eye in case he could somehow justify things.

_She's crying, calling for help. Snape turns away. Draco is torn between staring in shock and turning away in guilt for having put her there. The Dark Lord intones something ominous that's now fuzzed out by Draco's disinterest and resulting neglectful memory. Because she's just hanging there, suspended over dinner. And Draco can't eat. He can barely consider speaking --_ _   
_

_She's crying, calling for help. Snape just sits there, because he doesn't care. But _he _didn't have to look her son in the eye. Draco is torn between looking away in denial and forcing himself to confront his actions, his future, the future his father has chosen for him, the future he really wants, deep down, or else he'd say something. If all he wanted was to keep his mother safe and not be killed, he'd have rushed to take his offer, back then --__  
_

_She's crying, calling for help. He can't look at her, can't look at Snape, can't look _away _from her, can't even breathe. He doesn't remember when the Dark Lord took his father's wand, but when his aimless, vacant gaze drifts over his father's face, it's being carefully controlled, which is what gets Draco paying attention; seething under his terror, his father is _livid_. And then there's a flash of green light, and she's dead, of course. And then there's the snake--__  
_

_And she's crying, calling for help, and it starts all over again._ _   
_

So he deserved it. If not for the horrible crime of being unable to stomach a snake stomaching a human person, then for the actual horrible crime, minus the sarcasm, of having facilitated the whole stomaching thing to start with.

But a person can only sit in lukewarm water for so long before the novelty of intense misery just gets dull. So he took a measly five more minutes to soap up and rinse off, then dressed in his pyjamas to sneak down to the kitchen and get some of the dinner he hadn't had. He wasn't up to risking getting Mother angry at him as well by having Liddy in with dinner again. She'd never raised a hand to him, but the sight of her face creased in disappointment cut just as deeply. Plus, she'd been known to take away flying privileges without even thinking twice.

Draco didn't do anything so dramatic as move through his house like a ghost, but he might as well have. The lower-level, more squeamish Death Eaters had been scattered by the affair at dinner; the Old Guard were off in the pool house, celebrating in more adult styles. So he had the run of the corridors, padding down them in bare feet, taking the stairs two at a time and generally pretending it was his house again, which was the only way he could be certain not to get really and truly pissed off - now that there was no one around that could frighten him off that - and put a hole in the wall or something. Maybe draw a big black moustache onto his father on the huge family portrait in the foyer?

He idly thought up and discarded possible and relatively harmless pranks all the way to the kitchens. There was little point in putting real thought into the exercise because, as he'd been pretending, it was his house again and he'd only be mucking up his own things. But it did keep him busy. He was nothing, if not easily distracted by cheerful thoughts of vandalism and destruction. And there was possibly an unpoisoned half a roast duck waiting for him, which lightened his spirits a bit more.

And so it was in this considerably more jovial spirit that Draco slipped into the kitchen by the servants' entrance that never got used. As a child, he'd often wondered why they even had a second entrance, or indeed a first entrance. Mother didn't, as a rule, set foot in the kitchens, and the elves Apparated everywhere. He'd decided, applying a generous amount of youthful logic, that the most obvious answer was that one couldn't sneak into a place by its first door, and couldn't sneak into a place at all if it had _no_ doors.

And all of that meant next to nothing if it turned out that one wasn't the only one in the kitchen when one started cheerfully looking through the larder for leftover dinner things.

Draco froze when he saw his father and Snape seated at the cutting counter. Snape looked to be midway to annoyed, and there was a cauldron bubbling nearby, which taken altogether meant that Snape was cooking something up, which explained why _he_ was in the kitchen, although he could have used the potions store under the house near the dungeons if he'd had any real designs on serious potion-making.

But his father --

"Draco," Lucius drawled.

"Sorry, I-"

"Always sorry," he interrupted.

Draco put his hands up and backed away. "Never mind," he muttered, eager neither to get into another argument or stand there and just take his father's foul temper like a child.

Snape threw Lucius a look. "Did you want something, Mister Malfoy," he suggested.

"Isn't it obvious, Severus?" Lucius gestured with his wine glass. "The boy slept through dinner. He's hungry." He turned wild, bright eyes on Draco. "Sorry son. You know when dinner is in this house. I expect you'll be ravenous at breakfast. Ta now."

Draco glanced from his father to Snape and back, affectless. Snape was looking at him with something approaching concern, and he really _really_ didn't think he could handle that from someone who'd been so calm when Burbage had been calling out to him, specifically, for help. So he steeled himself and lifted his chin and tilted his head. "Good night, Father. Professor."

"I don't know what you're worried about, Severus," he heard his father say loudly, so that he could hear it even as he slammed out the door. "It's not like he could have kept it down anyway!"

Draco fumed all the way back to his wing, stomping in irritation and even more frustrated that the expensive, plush carpeting dampened the sound. He couldn't even throw an effective tantrum. His stomach gnawed painfully; he'd not been able to eat more than half of his apple, what with worrying whether someone would hex him into next week or try to murder him or something at breakfast. The tuna and mustard for lunch had been nice, but he'd snagged it early, near eleven, to make up for not having been able to handle breakfast. And it was what - after midnight now. He kept losing time.

When he got to the grand double doors that led to his wing of the Manor, he stopped with his hands on the door knobs, staring at the ornate carving around the edges distractedly.

Stupid Snape. Stupid Voldemort and his stupid _stupid_ snake! Draco pulled on the door handles even as he pitched himself forward, using the leverage to swing his foot into the door again and again until he heard the wood splinter, or maybe it was his toe - he was so beyond caring that he didn't stop until he'd exhausted himself and realised he was using the door as support.

Only then did he drag the doors open and limp into the corridor that over generations had led to the children's wing of the Manor. It was his alone, now, and he thought rather over-dramatically that it'd never be anyone else's after he was grown, never ever because he probably wouldn't survive the war and if he did, he certainly didn't ever want to live at home again, least of all have a family upon which to bestow the family curse. He never wanted to see that horrible nursery ever again, he thought as he passed his childhood playroom on the left. He never wanted to pass this marching line of family portraits, generations of Malfoys on one side, smatterings of portraits of the daughters and their families on the other, all soldiering on proudly like nothing was wrong. His own family portrait was at the end of the corridor nearest his personal rooms and he sneered up at himself as a four year old, waving happily while his father glanced at him sternly now and then, tapping him on the shoulder with his silver-topped walking stick, and his mother patted his fly-away hair back into place and tried to keep him from haring off after whatever shiny thing caught his eye.

He stumped past the stupid portrait and into his sitting room, draped in silver and green and mocking him for thinking he'd chosen any of it. With a drawn out sigh, he dropped onto the plush ornate sofa and stretched out on it. His foot throbbed reliably in time with his heart pounding.

"Young Master Draco!"

Liddy _popped_ into the room, eyes wide. "Young Master Draco!" she repeated.

"What _is_ it, you damned elf!" he growled, sitting up in a burst of temper. He ignored the stab of pain in his foot, except to let it fuel his ire. He stared at her, and then at the veritable feast she'd brought him. "What are you doing," he murmured, his voice low.

Liddy hopped from one foot to the other, wringing her hands. "Young Master Draco missed his dinner-!" she piped excitedly.

He was on his feet before she'd even finished the word, and she was cut off pretty neatly when his hands closed around her throat and they both went down.

"Stop _calling_ me that!" he cried, slamming the elf into the floor again. Never mind that it was impossible to do any damage on that abominably thick carpet. Never mind never mind. "Stop it! What in the _Hell_ do you think you're doing!" House elves were surprisingly strong, but they were disinclined to fight back against wizards they took as their masters, which he knew only _technically_ included him. While his father had been gone, he'd got quite a bit more clout among the elves, but now that he was back, he was relegated once again to "Master's disruptive puppy, treat with care," and it rankled. He swiped the large turkey leg she'd dressed for him and beat her in the face with it repeatedly. "Are you _trying_ to get me killed?" he shrieked, landing blow after blow. "Are you _trying_ to get me disowned? You _know_, you _know_ it's not allowed! You told her! You told her! I _know_ it! What are you doing! What!"

Liddy screeched and cried and put her hands up to stop the blows. "Liddy isn't doing anything!" she cried out. "Young Master Draco needs-!"

"Don't you _dare_ tell me what I need, you ungrateful, hideous little _toad_!" He spent the last of his energy punctuating each of the last of his words with the dull thud of turkey upside the elf's head, then sat on her, heaving great, sob-laced breaths. He didn't feel any better, he thought disjointedly, clumsily dragging himself off of her. Didn't, didn't. It wasn't the same as earlier that evening, not at all, and he wasn't – didn't – couldn't finish the thought. He kicked her away from him and got wearily to his feet. He'd wanted to break something; it was just as well house elves were sturdy. Getting a new one in to replace her might have enraged his rapidly unhinging father. Speaking of rapidly unhinging, he thought a bit frantically, threatened with laughter. He stood for a moment, getting his bearings.

"Bring me a bottle of red," he said then, hoarsely. He didn't turn around, but he knew she'd left from the _pop_ her Apparation made. If he turned around, he knew, there'd be spilt turkey dressing, whatever wine had been in with dinner, vegetables, dessert, whatever - strewn out on the floor untidily. So he didn't turn around, just went into his bedroom, through it and into his lavatory to wash his face and hands and look at himself in the mirror. His jaw was purpling after all where his father had smacked him, where that gaudy horrible ring had caught him. Whatever. Didn't matter. He limped back into his room and collapsed onto his bed.

_Okay, Draco. You've just beaten an elf bloody. Now what?_

It was kind of freeing, actually. He could see why his father enjoyed it. She was smaller, weaker, and had no power over him, except that she might tattle on him again. The difference this time was that his father wouldn't care that he beat an elf. His mum might be disappointed, because he'd completely wrecked the carpet. But he'd fix that - he was seventeen now, and it wasn't illegal for him to practice magic outside of school – not that his parents had really enforced those sorts of rules. So he'd fix that, maybe tomorrow. If he could walk. He flexed his foot with the possibly broken toe, temporarily forgotten in his hopefully-brief foray into madness. Ow. Where was his wine?

On cue, Liddy cracked into the sitting room. Half a second later, another crack signified that she'd left again. Draco limped out.

He fell asleep halfway through the bottle, passed out on the couch with his cheeks red.

##

"Really, Severus," Lucius chided. "Don't be soft on him. He has quite a bit of growing up to do, and coddling won't help him a single bit."

Snape frowned and stirred the bubbling cauldron carefully. "Indeed, it will not," he agreed mildly. The insinuation that he was being _soft_ on someone, even if it was Draco Malfoy, came unwelcome and not a little repellent. It was one thing to show him favour in class; quite another to suggest he cared whether the little snot ate his delicious meals with his loving doting parents or not.

Although it might have been true that the little snot was growing on him. Not because he was likable, because, while he had moments where the charm he'd inherited from his father shone through like sun through clouds, Draco was usually an airheaded brat who happened to be his father's son. He'd just always _been_ there, first a tumbling tot tugging on Snape's hair and crying when Snape pushed him away, then as a curious child who chased the swans and cried when they fought back, and then as a snotty eleven-year-old in his Potions class, whinging on about how horrible Potter had been to him, and Snape had believed him because it'd have been just like Potter's father, and because Young Malfoy had _quite_ left out the part where he'd been an insufferable twit.

But he hadn't had to accept Narcissa's pleading promise, never mind what Dumbledore wanted him to do. He might have been able to get out of doing so, argued more fervently that if the Dark Lord had wanted _him_ to kill Dumbledore, he'd have assigned him the task. She'd have believed him, whatever idiotic excuse he'd thought up; she wasn't altogether bright on a good day, and they hadn't been good days at all. They'd been desperate – _she'd_ been desperate. The desperate mother of a beloved son-

And whereas Potter's father had only ever been a cruel little idiot, Draco's had been something like a friend. And they looked very much alike, especially now that Draco was older, taller. His father had been quite a bit more solid a person, of course, where Draco was proving out to be more than a little weak under pressure, but –

Snape regarded his bubbling potion with annoyance. None of it truly mattered. He had a job to do.

"Do you know what he said to me," Lucius drawled.

Snape frowned at the way his voice slurred, but murmured, "No."

"He _said_ – He said…" Lucius trailed off, staring at some empty space before him.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "I don't really care, Lucius," he said. "He's a teenaged boy. They're all idiots."

Lucius seemed to consider that. "Yes, I suppose," he agreed faintly. "I'll have to kill him myself if he embarrasses me like that again."

Snape kept himself from rolling his eyes. The joke was in poor taste, considering that they'd just witnessed someone being murdered, and considering the "political environment," especially since Lucius had stopped laughing after making it some three years back. He made a mental note to try to work it into a conversation with Draco, in all of his copious spare time, to make sure the boy _knew_ it was a joke.

But not because he _liked_ him. Just because.


	5. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the patriarch snaps.

**T**he next few days went fast. Draco kept his head down, avoiding confrontations with Death Eaters at all costs, dodging any situation that would leave him alone with his father. The day after he'd gone off on Liddy, he was called into a meeting with a few of the older members of the club, apparently not having been either sullen or impossible enough to avoid the DL putting him to good use. He sat in the back, trying to be invisible and avoid any sort of leadership role, but Mouldy Voldy wasn't even in attendance. He paid attention for the first few minutes, long enough to find out that they were planning some sort of Muggle harassing exercise that didn't even register on his scale of evil now that he'd done such delightful things as get Headmasters killed and kidnap retarded blokes' mums. He didn't care any more, so long as he wasn't supposed to really do anything. It'd keep him out of his father's path, at any rate. But then his father'd stormed into the room and started arguing in hissing tones with the guy in charge ten minutes into the meeting. Draco's heart plummeted into his stomach like a lead weight, but before his father could find an excuse to drag him from the room, Professor Snape had appeared to usher him out into the corridor unobtrusively and pull him into a corner.

"Here," he said unkindly, shoving a vial into Draco's hand. "If you can't keep your temper well enough to keep from destroying your inheritance, can you at least refrain from _injuring yourself_ every time no one's keeping a mindful eye on you?" He took Draco's chin in his vise-like grasp and turned his purpling jaw toward him. Then he jerked Draco back to face him and narrowed his eyes, the way he did when he was trying to discern something.

Snape was a pretty good Legilimens, Draco remembered, too late. But he didn't feel the tell-tale signs of someone trying to skim his mind. All the same, he had this paranoid notion that everyone knew without having been told. He certainly hadn't spread around that his own father had backhanded him like a wayward house elf, but somehow, he knew that everyone knew. He managed to hold Snape's gaze for only a couple of moments before he had to look away, embarrassment flaming in his cheeks.

"Thank you," he'd said shortly, wresting his chin out of Snape's grasp. He looked back toward the room. "I…"

"You're excused," Snape barked. "You're far more useful in the library, where you're well out of the way of being so dreadfully underfoot."

Draco narrowed his eyes and twisted his mouth up in foul temper. "Suits me just fine," he spat, and limped off toward his schoolwork.

He didn't get tapped for any more missions after that, though his attitude obviously wasn't the issue so much as the notion that they were all gearing up for something far more important than "accidentally" knocking off the Malfoy heir. So long as it didn't involve him, he didn't care. He set his mind to his studies, putting up an alarm so he'd have plenty of time to change and take his tonic before dinner. Otherwise, he took breakfast and lunch in the library. He spent a good half an afternoon wondering why he hadn't thought of spending most of his time in the library before, since he was left well alone there, before he realised that he'd up til then been clinging to some stupid idea that it was still his house.

That had been four days ago.

Now, however, he couldn't keep up the aloof façade any longer. Things were going on in his house! He needed to know. Draco ventured from the library tentatively around three o'clock in the afternoon. There'd been a flurry of excitement, and while he tried to be unobtrusive about listening in, he'd been caught and summarily escorted from the room. Something big was going on, but from what he gleaned, nothing with Potter could happen until August for some reason and that was still a week away. Draco gave up trying to eavesdrop, took a plate of sandwiches, and retired into the library to catch himself up on his Transfiguration technique, after visiting his mother to check on her. His wand technique had atrophied a bit more than he wanted to admit, after spending all of his time not practicing it during Sixth Year.

Everyone was gone on the secret mission or whatever it was by six o'clock, which Draco could tell only because an eerie calm had fallen over his home, a calm which should have been welcome, but which instead only made the place feel empty and cold. He worked diligently, because there wasn't much else to do, and because he really needed to catch up before school started in mere weeks, and because the silence of the Manor creeped him out after so long in the company of dozens of Death Eaters coming in and out like it was some sort of Floo station. He murmured to himself as he practiced wand movements. No, that wasn't right. He peered at his text again, then turned the book upside down and quirked a smile in understanding. He was in the upswing of the proper arc when his hand was caught.

"So sweet, the little student hard at work," Lucius drawled.

Draco's heart dropped into his stomach. "Father," he said, his mouth dry. "I thought you were out."

"Ah... no. I was not."

Draco tried to keep his breathing even. That bit from a few days ago, it was just his father in a foul mood. Because of Burbage, because of the strain of having the Dark Lord in their house. No need to worry. Only, why wasn't he letting go his hand, then?

"You're not... on the mission, then?" Draco said stupidly. And oh, how stupid it was. His father's face grew dark.

"How could I be?" he murmured dangerously. "I haven't got a wand." His eyes flicked to the wand in Draco's hand, and Draco thought rebelliously, _Well I have, and I intend to use it!_

As if reading his mind, his father tightened his grip and bent Draco's wrist back a bit. Draco winced, against his will. "The Dark Lord hadn't need of me," Lucius continued. His eyes were black with anger. "Stay and mind your boy, he said. Mind he keeps his head, he said. Why must you always be so _difficult_!" In a deft movement, Lucius had wrested Draco's wand from him had it pointed at the double doors leading to the corridor. "_Muffliato_," he murmured, then pointed the wand at Draco. "This is my wand now, do you hear me?"

Draco lifted his chin and stared at the point of his own wand, swallowing roughly. Grow a backbone! "Apologies, Father," he tried, infusing the word with as much respect as he could muster. "But that wand belongs to me. Could I have it back, please." He held out his hand for it half-heartedly, like trying to get a mean-tempered dog to sniff you without savaging you.

The mad dog would have none of it. Lucius grabbed his hand and bent it back, pressing the point of his wand into the vulnerable underside of his wrist. "I think not," he said, eyes sparkling. "You'll never hold a wand again." He murmured something that Draco didn't catch, as half a moment later there was a sickening crack and pain blossomed from his wrist and radiated down his arm. He cried out, but Lucius didn't let go.

"Couldn't handle a boy who only learned magic exists six years ago," he repeated, twisting. Draco yelped again and clutched at his father's shirtfront, leaning forward in his chair.

"Father, please," he gasped.

"Please, Draco? I think we're a bit beyond that now. Let's see... Couldn't get him to shake your hand -" And Lucius did, emphatically. Draco felt sick at the movement, his vision swimming a bit as his eyes welled. "Couldn't best him in a duel. Shall we see whether it was _my_ new wand that failed? Stand up!"

Draco shook his head and whimpered into his father's shirt. "It's not yours," he bit out, clinging to some shred of bratty backbone. "It's mine."

Lucius ignored him, tilting Draco's wand and murmuring _Imperio_, then he said again, "Stand up!"

The blanket of Imperious lay over Draco like a thick fog, and he was compelled to his feet, though he protested. "Father, please," he backpeddled. _I'll never disrespect you again, I'll never - I swear_. But those words, he couldn't make come out. Just _Father, please_, like a whinging little whelp. God. He watched dully as his father adopted a dueling pose, arm thrown up behind him comically.

"_Serpensortia_!" he cackled, and Draco flinched as the snake was expelled from the tip of his wand and flew at him, hissing and spitting and fighting mad. He threw an arm up to fend it off, but the thing only wound itself around his injured arm and sank its teeth into his forearm. Draco fell to his knees, shaking. He held his arm out, frozen in fear and trying desperately to figure out what he was supposed to do. Funny, he'd have thought knowing what to do in case of _snake bite_ would have been the first thing taught in Death Eater 101. He laughed giddily at his own stupid joke, seriously hoping he'd cracked and that none of this was really happening. _I've gone insane_, he cackled roundly in his head. _I've gone mad, and I'm really in a nice white room at St Mungo's, with kind Medi-wizards shaking their heads sadly at me. Dear God._ The snake undulated as snakes do, working its fangs a bit as Draco whimpered and tried not to vomit. He restrained himself from saying please again, but it was the only thing he could think of to say.

"What do you know, it worked..." Lucius said something else that washed right out of Draco's hearing, but the result was that the snake was gone. The detached part of his mind reasoned that it must have been _Evanesco_ or some flavour of it, and cataloguing that away was some small comfort to the part of his mind which was certain he'd gone spare. Draco clutched his bleeding, broken arm to himself and stared at the carpet, taking great shuddering breaths. "And what was that I heard about last year?" His father's voice was low and smooth, gently teasing his prey in a way that Draco had often gloried in, but never imagined would be on the receiving end of. "Draco Malfoy tried to cast an Unforgiveable curse at _the _Harry Potter? I should have liked to have seen that. Tell me, how did it work?"

"H-How did you hear about that," Draco mumbled, trying for rebellious and missing by a wide margin.

"Sorry? Can't hear you." He tilted Draco's wand again. "Tell me how you fared, my boy."

"I didn't – didn't get it off," he said more loudly, wavering on his knees a little.

"Certainly not the wand, right?"

"No, Father. I just wasn't fast enough." It pained him to admit it, but he couldn't bring himself to play into Lucius' little game.

"Let's just check," he murmured, and Draco tensed just a split second before the curse hit him.

And then he was on the ground, Lucius' _Crucio_ ringing in his mind as every nerve in his body sent distress signals to his brain. It was unbearable, he thought - until it was over and he found he'd borne it, albeit as a puddle of sobbing teenager on the floor of his father's library.

Still.

When the second _Crucio_ curled him up on the floor, he tried to focus on the Lucius that was - the one who'd been a not great but not evil father before Azkaban. _This isn't him, this isn't him. And Mother's going to hear_ \- only, no one was going to save him, no one could hear, and he wasn't even screaming anyway, because he couldn't breathe, because he wasn't in control of his own rebellious muscles which seemed to be trying to tear themselves off of bones too stubborn to break. And even the ones that had already been broken - the wash of pain was merciful enough, at least, to completely overwhelm that of his broken wrist.

And then that one was over as well.

"Father, please," he said again, and immediately regretted it.

"_Father, please!_" Lucius snarled, and put all the energy he had into a third and hopefully final curse. Draco didn't even remember it, except that he was hoarse when it was over, and imagined he had given up trying to scream with air and had managed it with pure strength of desperation instead. He lay limply on the floor as his father stalked around him like he was circling prey. Draco stared at nothing. Lucius pushed him from his side onto his back with a foot, then knelt beside him. Draco shuddered when his father's hand tugged at his shirt, pulling the buttons free.

"And what was it," he murmured, "that he bested you with so handily...?" He traced a couple of inches of the thin white scar that started at Draco's collarbone and swept down across his chest like a brand.

"... no," Draco breathed.

"Tell me, Draco." He tilted Draco's wand, pressing the blanket of _Imperius_ more firmly into place.

Draco sighed a half-sob and blinked quickly. He'd never forget those words. "... _Sectum... sempra..._" he breathed.

His father smiled down at him and stood, swishing the wand delicately. "_Sectum... sempra._"

##

Snape swept into the parlour on a mission. A grand mission, of wine bottle proportions. He didn't ordinarily drink, especially while "on duty," but the events of the night rather warranted it, he thought. And he needed to check on Lucius; the man had been strangely cheerful by the end of the meeting, and it was worrying.

He found Narcissa relaxing in the parlour in front of the blazing fireplace, despite the summer heat outside.

"Narcissa," he murmured. "You're up late."

Narcissa looked up at him. "Oh Severus. You've come back. How did-"

"We shouldn't talk about it," he interrupted. "Our Lord won't be returning tonight, I'm afraid." He could see in her face that it was all the answer she cared for. "I'd meant to look for Lucius. Have you spoken with him since the meeting?"

She shook her head. "I haven't." She smiled weakly and waved a hand. She'd clearly hit a bit of the bottle herself. "You know how it is," she said wispishly. "I've left him to his own devices."

"His own devices?" Snape frowned. The trouble a Malfoy on a rampage could get into-

"The last I saw him," she said thoughtfully, "he was going to the library to help Draco with his school work."

Snape's frown deepened. "How long ago?" he asked, his voice chilly. It hadn't escaped his notice that Draco'd been avoiding his father for the last week. The stupid boy probably thought he'd been hiding it well. But of course, it was Snape's job to notice things like that, things that threatened certain safeties, a post he was particularly suited for. Draco wasn't a murderer; he'd proved that on the Tower. It was Snape's duty to help innocent children not become victims, even if the innocent children weren't so very innocent as all of that, or indeed, still children.

"A couple of hours ago," she said, alarmed. "Severus-"

"Stay here," he said smoothly. "I'll just go see how they're getting on." As soon as he was out of sight of the parlour, he broke into a run and crossed the wide foyer between wings in record time for a geezer of his certain age. He burst into the library and stopped short at the scene before him.

Lucius sat mumbling to himself on the low sofa, tears streaming down his face. Snape rushed to him.

"Lucius!" He shook him gently, until the man lifted his eyes to meet Snape's worried gaze. "What happened? Lucius."

Lucius didn't answer, just laughed softly and looked back over Snape's shoulder. Snape took a deep breath and prepared himself before glancing backward. When he did, he muttered an uncharacteristic "Oh _balls_," and swept toward the bloodied, twitching boy on the floor. "Mr Malfoy. Draco."

Draco didn't reply, though his eyelids fluttered, hopefully acknowledging that he could hear and was conscious. His hands and feet twitched convulsively, and he was covered in blood from a familiar curse. That damnedable curse of Snape's own design - it seemed neither of them had been able to escape it that night. How Lucius had known about it- "Mr Malfoy, answer me," he said again.

"Draco," Lucius murmured sternly from the sofa. "Say hello to Professor Snape."

Draco whimpered, then, so softly Snape had to lean in to hear it, said, "...h'llo... p'fess'r..."

Snape looked back at Lucius in alarm, then narrowed his eyes at the wand in his hand, tilted downward in command. "Hand it over," he demanded, bringing his own wand to bear.

"Now see here, Severus. This is my house," Lucius began, getting to his feet. "That is _my_ son, and I will punish him as I see fit!"

"Punish him? This isn't punishment, you insufferable imbecile!" Snape stood and had stalked toward him only a step before Draco whimpered again. Lucius stopped his impending tirade short, his angry gaze snapping to his son's twitching body and instantly dropping into stung concern, eyes filling with tears again and spilling over. He handed the wand over without another word. Snape turned his back on the muttering man and murmured the countercurse to lift the probable _Imperius _before starting the much longer countercurse to stop the bleeding. Except that the carpet was soaked through red, and who knew how long Lucius had been sitting, watching his son bleed to death. "Draco, stay with me," he murmured.

"I d-don't need," Draco hiccupped breathily, and even through the pain and blood loss, Snape could see the trademark beginnings of a Malfoy temper tantrum.

"You do need," he assured silkily, moving his arms to his sides in order to remove the tattered remains of his shirt. Draco yelped and arched his back, and Snape frowned. He shushed the boy, trying to sound kind, but he knew he hadn't pulled it off when Draco just started sobbing silently, tears rolling from his eyes into the sweat-damp, crimson-spattered hair at his temples. Instead of trying to be kind, then, he just set about being as gentle as possible as he performed the countercurse again and again, until he thought Draco was put-together well enough to stand being transported to his rooms.

"M-mad, 've gone mad," Draco murmured giddily, stuttering in concert with the twitching of his hands, a by-product of… what Snape suddenly realised must have been several instances of the _Cruciatus_. The boy's eyelids fluttered as he tried to retain consciousness and finally failed. Worry bloomed cold in Snape's chest, even as his logical mind reminded him that passing out was probably a blessing, to everyone involved.

"Lucius," he commanded, stuffing Draco's wand into his sleeve. "You'll come help me, _now_."

Lucius obeyed – somewhat dully, Snape thought. Perhaps the man had really snapped.


	6. In Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our intrepid hero whines quite a lot while insisting he's not a child.

**E**verything hurt. Even things he didn't realise _could_ hurt, hurt. He groaned, first thing. Just in case the bastard who'd done it to him was sitting around. _Didn't kill me, arsehole. Not even close._

"Draco."

Oh right. _Open your eyes, idiot. _He did, but it took effort. His mouth felt filled with cotton. He groaned again, but he'd been trying to make words that time, and not being able to lit up panic in his chest. He blinked around until the black faded a bit to reveal professor Snape, peering at him with that stupid irreconcilable concern again. "P... ser..." he managed.

"Relax, Mister Malfoy," Snape soothed.

"Relax," he breathed. "And how should I do that?" Only it didn't sound so much like words as it did the slurred attempts of a drunken toddler.

"I'll give you something-"

"No!" Draco even tried to sit up. He failed dramatically, but the attempt hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Mister Malfoy," Snape cautioned. "You're in no condition to make any sort of demands here. I understand your concern-"

"You don't. You couldn't."

"I _do_," Snape impressed imperiously, glowering down on at him. He pressed a hand to Draco's chest to keep him from trying to sit up again.

Draco wailed pitiably at the pressure on his twice lacerated chest and fell back into his fluffed pillows. "Has anyone ever mentioned," he gasped, "that you lack a certain bedside manner...?"

"From time to time," Snape rejoined coolly. "Often just after I've saved them from certain death."

Draco wrinkled his nose at the Potions Master, but didn't have a ready response. His head felt stuffed with wool and disjointed and he felt just a bit like he ought to be seeking vengeance in some way on something smaller and less powerful than his father was. The professor certainly didn't fit the bill, even if he _had_ felt like he could move. Instead, he closed his eyes again and said, "I. He... was suborned, right?"

Snape didn't respond, so Draco opened his eyes and looked at him. "Wasn't he? It's all right." He said it in a rush. Too much to hope, really, but - "If it was a plan, to punish him by having him kill me himself, it's all right. I won't tell anyone that you said. I'm a good Occlumens. I swear-"

Snape drew his brows together and took a breath. "I could lie to you," he suggested.

Draco swallowed roughly. "You could," he agreed slowly. "But you don't have to. I won't tell."

"Draco..."

Draco's heart sank. "And if he wasn't," he continued, as though he'd always been all right with the other possibility, "that's all right as well. We knew he'd come back different."

Snape nodded, which was even more disheartening. Wasn't he supposed to say something more vague and hopeful, like "well, you just never know!" The notion of Snape saying something so cheerful, possibly topping it off with a huge stupid grin, made Draco laugh slightly, which made him wince, which made his limbs spasm painfully. "Ow..." he muttered, eyelids fluttering.

Snape frowned. "Try _not_ laughing inappropriately," he suggested. "I find it helps quite a bit."

"I was imagining you being cheerful," Draco said honestly. Really, what could he lose at this point? "It was hysterical."

"I suppose it would be," Snape allowed.

Draco narrowed his eyes, suddenly on edge. "Why are you being so..." He flapped a hand - or tried to. It was immobilised in a thin cast and hurt to move. He let it go without complaining. "... nice? Did something else happen?" He widened his eyes. "The mission-?"

"What do you know about the mission?" Snape asked, his voice suddenly much less conciliatory.

Draco shrank back by reflex and he glanced at the door of his room, stupidly, for rescue. Snape put a hand on his shoulder and Draco tensed, bracing himself. "I don't know anything," he managed in a small voice.

Snape paused and looked into his face for a long moment while Draco tried to exude confidence rather than the pants-wetting dread he _actually_ felt. Then the professor gave his shoulder a more or less comforting squeeze. He summoned a chair and took a seat at Draco's bedside.

"Draco," he said. "You can trust me. I've made an Oath. I trust you know what that means?"

Draco nodded, then winced as the lights that were swimming in his vision exploded with the movement. "If you break it, you die instantly."

"Indeed," Snape replied. "I've taken an Oath to protect your life. If your life is endangered, so is mine. If for no other reason, look to that and trust me. All right?"

Draco thought better of nodding, and only closed his eyes wearily, breathing, "Yes, all right."

"I know you're tired, and you should get some rest. But first I've got to ask you some questions about tonight. This will help you relax a little." He offered a small vial.

Draco looked at it uneasily. "Father-" he started, then stopped. Snape looked earnest; those black eyes which were so difficult to read when he was just a student trying to see how much shit he could pull before losing House points were now impossible to gauge. Draco sighed softly and looked down at his bedspread. "Father put something in my drink last week," he admitted. "I really should have seen this coming."

"You did," Snape assured, and while it shouldn't have been so reassuring or comforting, it was. "You saw this coming," Snape continued. "I noticed. Avoiding him was the best move. You couldn't know you'd be alone in the house tonight."

"We weren't alone," Draco said quickly, new dread rising. "Mother-!"

"She's fine. She doesn't know anything, and she doesn't have to."

"Damn straight, she doesn't," Draco agreed emphatically. "No one does."

"Language," Snape warned, handing him the vial. "Now drink up. The faster you answer my questions, the sooner you can get some rest."

Draco took the vial with his left hand and paused a moment. Snape, if he wasn't lying, had taken an Oath, and Draco knew it was likely, because Snape had already done it once before. But his mum had pretty much backed him into a corner about it that first time near a year ago, and if the professor resented that... He looked up at Snape. "Why do you have to ask?" he murmured. "You're a Legilimens, aren't you?"

Snape offered him a less than patient look. "Because _you're_ a competent Occlumens, and I know you'd fight me every step of the way. Do you really think it'd be less horrible to sustain yet another curse tonight in order to relive each of the ones that came before, than it would be to simply tell me about them?"

Draco frowned. He was tired; his composure was waning. He was about two seconds from snapping at his professor, but at least, he thought giddily, he couldn't lose House points. "It's summer," he mumbled, then winced. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. He suddenly felt nauseous and sped up. His vision cracked into two, vividly coloured and dizzying. "Shit-!" He tried to sit up but Snape's hands were on his shoulders, pressing him back into his pillows again. His back arched a little without having first asked him, and he choked back a sudden sob.

Snape swiped the vial from his hand and then held him firmly down into his bed. "Draco," he said firmly. "Calm down."

Draco stared at his professor's face without much comprehension, his breath coming in ragged desperate gasps. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, and he couldn't grab on to any of them. His heart raced madly; he knew with a certainty that he'd be sick, and with another certainty that he'd never be anything ever again. "God," he mumbled as his eyelids fluttered. Calm down, calm down. He could do that. He wrenched his eyes open and focused on Snape's blurry face. "Professor," he said, and while it should have been clear, he found that no sound at all came from his lips. He tried again. It wasn't just him. There was no sound at all. He saw Snape's mouth moving.

So he waited. There wasn't anything _he_ could do, clearly. Snape would have to do it. But Snape didn't do anything. Just held him down and watched him kindly, which was odd and terrifying. Was he dying? Oh God - no, no, just calm down.

His breathing calmed a few moments later. His vision cleared and refocused. Hearing came back. Snape was murmuring soothing, silky things to him. The pressure on his shoulders had all but disappeared as he got more and more relaxed.

"-after effects," Snape was saying.

Draco blinked. "Sorry... what?"

Snape looked annoyed. "I was telling you to calm down, that fits like this are possible after effects. Of the curses you sustained."

Not _the curses your own father cast at you._ Of course not.

Draco nodded, his mouth dry. "How long...?"

Snape interpreted him. "That might have been the last one. You've already had two others."

"I don't remember..."

"It's just as well," Snape said casually, then offered the vial. "You _will_ drink this. No more stalling."

Draco took the vial, thought of three more questions he could have asked, then bravely tossed the whole thing back like a shot of mild whiskey. "Ugh, that's foul," he murmured.

"Oh," Snape said pleasantly, "Then I've brewed it correctly. I'm so pleased to hear it."

Ah right, that wasn't _pleasantly_, that was _sarcastically_. Clearly, being cursed several times messed with Draco's ability to tell the difference. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Now then. Let's start at the beginning." When Draco had nodded, Snape continued. "Describe for me what you were doing just previously to the attack."

"I was brushing up on my wand technique. I'm going back to school in the fall," he added unnecessarily.

"Where were you?"

"In the library."

"Why were you brushing up on your technique?"

"Because I paid absolutely no attention in class last term, and because no one bothers me when I'm in the library," he over-answered.

Snape looked pleased about something. Draco had a sinking feeling he was about to become really irritated about whatever it was. Snape'd probably thought he'd lie about something like that, and was pleased to see he'd been honest. Or something.

"Describe your encounter with your father."

Draco fidgeted. _You know this_, he meant to say, but instead said, rather sluggishly, "He came into the library-" Draco froze. Oh God. _Veritaserum_. He looked at Snape, stung and betrayed. _You better have not lied about that Oath, arsehole, or I will SO kill you._ His face twisted in anger even as his traitorous mouth went on. "- and grabbed my wand hand. He said something-"

"What did he say?"

Even drugged to tell the truth, Draco had to fight his memory for control. "He said... 'So sweet, the little student hard at work...' We had some other conversation-"

"Tell me as much of it as you can remember."

Draco fumed, but couldn't help himself. He wracked his memory. "I asked whether he wasn't out on the mission, and he said he wasn't, obviously, because he hadn't a wand, and because the Dark Lord had told him to stay home and... mind his son." Before he could stop himself, he continued, "then he swiped my wand and cast a silencing charm over the room. He said that it was his wand, and I protested and asked for it back-" Like an idiot, he would have added, if the _Veritaserum _had allowed it. "-but he just said... I'd never hold a wand again. Then he..." He glanced down at his immobilised wrist and hoped that was enough to satisfy the drug.

Before the serum could compel him though, Snape nodded and said, "All right. What happened next?"

Draco took that as permission to skip the embarrassing details regarding his spineless sobbing all over his father's shirtfront and said, "He made me stand up-"

"With?"

"_Imperius_."

"All right."

Draco shook his head and closed his eyes. He didn't want to talk about it. Why did Snape even want to know?

"You'll only get a headache if you try to resist, Draco," Snape murmured.

So Draco took a breath and hung his head and gave in, because it was easier than having pride and honour and a spine. He told Snape whatever he asked, and Snape didn't appear to either care or be surprised, until it came to the final curse.

"How did Lucius know about the _Sectum Sempra_ curse? If you don't know, just say that."

Draco shrugged listlessly. "I don't know how he found out about last year. He didn't seem to know the curse, though, so he... made me tell him."

Snape watched him for a moment, but Draco didn't care. The _Veritaserum_ had leeched his composure, dignity, and any energy he might have once had.

"Then I don't remember anything else until you found me."

Snape frowned. "This isn't the first time he's been hard on you, is it?" he pointed out. Like Draco needed the reminder. He huffed.

"No." He'd meant to go on to say it _was_ the first time he'd nearly killed him, but even though Snape seemed finished with his questions, Draco was still beholden to the serum. "Last week, after I... after the Burbage thing-"

Snape cut him off. "I suspected as much." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and said: "And before that?"

Draco closed his eyes and pressed himself back into his pillows, remembering all the stupid stunts he'd pulled over the years trying to be like his father, trying to impress him or just meet his expectations. Looking back, he could see just how far short he'd fallen, not explicitly because he was a failure, but because he'd never really known what his father wanted from him. Lucius probably didn't know either. "Father's a difficult man," he managed. It was the truth, and it was sort of an answer, but the headache was starting. He really didn't want to have to explain the raspberry bush incident, or the thing with the puppy, or the dungeons or that one time during his flying lessons. He opened his mouth to go on against his will and felt himself pale.

Snape patted his shoulder. "That's enough, Mister Malfoy," he demurred smoothly.

Draco opened his eyes enough to see Snape was getting up to leave. "I hate you," he breathed.

Snape paused. "Is that so," he murmured.

Draco closed his eyes again, so near passing out that he could feel the cold of blissful unconsciousness creeping into his limbs. "I would have told you the truth," he slurred breathily. "Never drug me again..."

##

Snape pressed his mouth into a thin line as the boy winked quite out of consciousness. It would have been foolhardy to laugh at his last, oh so earnest sentiments, but the fact of the matter was that Draco Malfoy couldn't have hexed a fly into buzzing around in a circle in his state. He was paler than usual, around high spots of colour on his cheeks, and had already sweat through a set of sheets before he'd waked up. Snape had sympathy for the boy, so much as could be had for the sort of bully Malfoy was. Not so different from James Potter, really. And he'd been as prepared as most of the rest to write him off as the Lucius Malfoy of the next generation - a hard man to please, and far too good at being deviously evil—

Until the events of his sixth year proved him out as a fearful, spineless – no, that wasn't right. An inability to commit murder at one's own expense wasn't the product of fear. Doing whatever he thought it took to keep his family safe wasn't spineless. It was just _misdirected_. He should have gotten to him sooner. He should have taken him aside right after his father was sent to Azkaban. If he'd trusted Dumbledore's instincts about Malfoy, he might have been in a better place to – If Albus had had time to mention it in more than just passing between trying to keep that damnedable fool Potter alive, perhaps--

Snape frowned as Draco tried to shift in his sleep and winced. There was still that sleeping potion in the kitchens. The last thing Malfoy needed was yet another potion introduced into his system, but if he didn't get any sleep at all, he'd be laid up that much longer. With a plan in mind, he sighed hard at the stupid boy and swept out of his rooms toward the kitchens.

He found Lucius loitering around the unmended double doors leading to the nursery wing.

"Lucius," he said smoothly, gesturing that the elder Malfoy should walk with him.

Lucius didn't take the hint. Instead, he waited until Snape was barely out of the way before he put his hands on the door handles. Snape tapped at his knuckles with his wand, narrowing his eyes menacingly.

"I wouldn't," he said.

Lucius narrowed his eyes back and said, "He's _my_ son, Severus."

"Indeed he is. Walk with me."

Lucius regarded him for a moment more before he acquiesced. They walked for a few paces before he broke the silence. "I'll not be chided in my own home."

"Indeed, I'll not play nursemaid to your family woes," Snape agreed. "At this juncture, it is only my concern that you not _murder_ one of the Dark Lord's inner circle. You are aware that Draco bears the Mark, and has done since just after your arrest?"

Lucius frowned. "Yes."

Snape tsked. It was like teaching eleven year olds advanced potions. After another few steps, Snape turned on him. "What were you thinking would happen, you insufferable twit?" he hissed, with rather more venom than he'd meant.

Lucius cocked his head back at a tilt - trademark Malfoy. Draco had it down to an irritating tee. "He's all right now, isn't he?"

"No thanks to you. When I found you, you seemed content to let him bleed out on the floor."

"I didn't know the countercurse," Lucius defended. "I knew you were due back soon."

"And did you intend," Snape ground out, leaning close, his knuckles white around his wand, "to wreck him for further service to our Lord? The curse you performed was _designed_ to be nigh-unfixable. I _know_ because you learned it from _me._"

Lucius couldn't hold his gaze. "I don't have to explain myself to you," he said, sounding strained. His eyes shone, and Snape was disgusted.

"Not to me, no. But perhaps to him. And most certainly to our Lord. Explain to _him _why the Death Eater with the best age to success ratio in the club will be two weeks before he can hold a wand again, least of all reliably wield it. You're lucky I came when I did."

"Lucky, am I?" Lucius breathed. "You're a fool, Severus. You always have been. It's easy, isn't it. To play at teaching _Potions_-" He spat the word, advancing. "-while doing absolutely nothing at all. The rest of us have to contend with a boy who defeated the Dark Lord as an _infant_, and yet we're the failures for having tried, while you play at chemistry with him every day for ten months of the year and get commended for giving him detention!"

"Is that what you think!" Snape purred silkily, eyes flashing.

"Lucius? Severus?" Narcissa Malfoy's timid voice called from the doorway of the parlour.

Snape pulled Lucius in one last time to murmur, "If you love your son at all, you will _not_ tell her what you've done."

Lucius gave him a hard look and then schooled his face into a gracious smile before turning to his wife with outstretched arms. It was unsettling the way he managed it, Snape thought, as Lucius swept Narcissa into a husbandly embrace and kissed her. Vaguely, he wondered whether Draco'd inherited the ability as reliably as he'd inherited the smirk, and then more disturbingly, he wondered how long he'd been employing it to cover up whatever _Father's a difficult man_ had meant to include. He'd always had a short temper in both directions, just as Lucius did; one moment, angry and irritated, laughing the next. He wasn't quite as good at forcing the switch, but given a few more years of tutelage with the man who was talking grandly about some party he was planning, and Draco'd be a pro at not getting angry quite so quickly. His temper told on him.

Of course, that presumed he lived long enough, and after Dumbledore's last bundle of requests, it was, if not at the top of his list, somewhere in the middle of Snape's priorities. If he couldn't find it in him to save the boy for his own good, he had to do it for Dumbledore's ghost. And if he didn't, he could be sure to hear about it from that blasted portrait he left behind.

##

It was three whole days before Draco was allowed out of bed. Mother had been informed of his "accident" the morning after. If he hadn't been so determined to keep her in the dark about it, he'd have been truly incensed that she'd believed the lie. A massive backfire when practicing? Who had ever heard of such a thing? Least of all, happening to him.

He _was_ incensed that the story involved his doting father happening upon his mewling near-corpse just in the nick of time. It was maddening. Draco refused to speak with him when he visited, instead making a point to speak to Snape or his mother and ignore his father completely. And while he was still completely pissed off at Snape for having drugged him, he couldn't help feeling grateful that he was present each and every time Lucius made an appearance without Narcissa. Lucius looked uncomfortable and annoyed each time, clearly having wanted time alone, and that all by itself was enough to cheer Draco up a bit. His father fumed and twitched and couldn't touch him, because to do so in front of others would have been undignified. It didn't occur to Draco until half-way through the third day that he was setting himself up for a horrible fall if and when his father managed to get him alone. But he wasn't giving up his wand again. Not in a million years, and he'd heard Lucius' had been destroyed in the Mission.

Of course, that million would have to start _after_ he was able to hold a wand again in the first place. Snape had explained it to him, but all he heard was "Your dad's a bastard, and tried to cripple you for life. Luckily, I'm also a bastard and created the curse in the first place, so I've put things mostly to rights."

The point was, it'd be at least another week before he could get the cast off, and another before he could make a swishing movement. Then months of work to get his technique back, and he'd let it go for a year to start with. Not fun.

His first outing was to be dinner. It was also his first time getting dressed in proper clothes in three days, and he'd have to do it one-handed. And he wasn't yet allowed his tonic because Snape was worried.

Ha. Snape who'd drugged him was worried that a drug _prescribed_ to him by a _Mediwitch_ would do him more harm than good? It was laughable, but his mother believed it, so he was stuck.  
There was a -_pop-_ in his bedroom. Draco stuck his head out of his bathroom to check.

"Mistress has sent Liddy to help Young Master Draco," Liddy mumbled without looking at him.

Draco stared for a moment. Then, in the vacuum where thoughts should have been, words rushed into his mind. _She deserved it. She doesn't even have feelings. God, Draco, they're barely even sentient! Besides which, they _like _punishment. It makes them feel useful, appreciated. Like what they do matters enough to be recognized when they screw up._

Except that if that last were true, then they did have feelings.

But it was all rubbish. All of it. The fact of the matter was that he didn't feel horrible for having beaten her with a turkey leg. He felt horrible for having beaten her with a turkey leg while blaming her for something that had been due to his own weakness to start with, and for doing something she had thought he'd wanted.

More than that, he felt horrible for beating her because a day earlier, his mother had visited with him and had asked him whether he wanted to get Liddy in with dinner again like before, because she'd noticed he'd been missing meals and wanted to be sure he was getting properly fed. He'd pressed her and learned that _both_ of the previous meals had been sent by his mother, who had clearly had a change of heart regarding taking meals in his rooms. He'd been a fool to trust either of his parents to be constant.

But of course, even if he'd been allowed out of bed, Draco knew he wouldn't have made an effort to find the elf and apologise. It just wasn't _done_. Who even knew what an elf would _do_ if it was apologised to?

But now she was here, looking everywhere but at him.

He still couldn't do it. The best he could do was look away and say, "I can do it myself. It's all right," very quietly.

"Mistress says-"

Draco sighed and slunk into the room, his mood going swiftly south. "Whatever," he mumbled, collapsing into a chair near his wardrobe. He limply allowed the elf to help him manoeuvre his right arm into his sleeve, then button up his shirt for him, to slip his shoes onto his feet. She even brushed his hair into sleek smoothness from the untidy mess it had been.

"What did you think-" he began hesitantly, when she'd come back with his tie.

Liddy blinked her lamplight eyes at him, waiting patiently for him to go on.

Draco swallowed uneasily. "Never mind."

Liddy's ears drooped and she reached up to sling his tie around his neck. Draco bent to facilitate. Her wrinkly splayed fingers worked the tie expertly.

"All house elfs knows," she said after a moment, concentrating on his tie rather more than he thought she needed to. "All house elfs knows," she repeated, "about Master." She patted his tie into place consideringly, then looked up at him with a tiny smile. "Malfoys is mean in their blood. Malfoys can't help it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he snarled without meaning to.

She didn't startle or shrink back. She had probably expected a blow. "It means," she replied with a hopeless shrug, "Liddy forgives Young Master Draco, without being asked."

Draco furrowed his brows and lowered his gaze, nodding. It was the closest he could bring himself to saying thanks, because that was just another thing you didn't do. "Liddy," he said instead. "Please don't call me young any more. It's factually incorrect." His temper was decidedly even. It was kind of nice.

Liddy noticed. She cheered up visibly. "As Master Draco wishes," she piped.

It was strange, the way elves didn't react the way people would have. He'd have been summarily chided for having been ungrateful, if it'd been his mother, but Liddy just lapped up the request like it was affection. The mind boggled.


	7. Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which warnings are given without explanations, a bastard is called a bastard, and Draco threatens any shred of safety he has because of his incredible snottiness.

**"Y**oung Malfoy," the Dark Lord hissed a week later.

Draco resisted the urge to give him a casual salute as he sat in his chair between his mother and father at the opposite end of the long dinner table. Mostly out of self-preservation, of course, but he told himself it was because he'd botch it if he tried it left-handed. It'd just look silly instead of cavalier, and death wasn't worth it if he wasn't going to be able to do it right and go out in style.

Instead, he nodded solemnly and tried not to look directly at it - er, him. Other Death Eaters were watching him expectantly. Draco tried to ignore the attention and waited for conversation to resume. He didn't see what the big deal was - he'd been at dinner every night for the last week, eating left-handed and keeping his right hand in his lap. Snape'd let him have the cast off earlier in the day, and he'd spent the entire afternoon holding things. It was all very novel at the time, but felt silly upon reflection. And even after all of that arduous _holding things_ practice, he still didn't feel confident in his ability to manipulate a _spoon_.

Still, he was proud. He displayed his cast-less hand on the table next to his plate even as he stabbed at his veal with a fork in his left hand. Even sitting next to his father, he was cheerful. He made sparkling conversation with his mother, despite her trying to cut parts of his dinner up for him, and good-naturedly tried to pass things when someone asked for them, even though they got passed over him instead.

Take that, he told his rebellious stomach. He was cheerful, and nothing could dampen his mood. Vaguely, he wondered whether someone had dosed his wine - again - with some sort of cheering up potion. He glanced at Snape, smiled by reflex, then remembered he was still vexed at him for some reason and glared.

Snape glowered, and Draco grinned after all, flexing the fingers of his right hand gingerly. Snape's frown lifted a little, and he arched a brow. Didn't matter. Dinner was a breeze. How had he ever thought it was difficult?

Oh right, he discovered moments later, after Mouldy Voldy announced dinner was over - an honour his father should have had, internal family issues bedamned! Damn, snakey-kins noticed his dissenting attitude, or else he was just looking at him for fun. Shit shit -

Draco schooled his face as he stood along with everyone else. He'd been showing off too much, acting too cheerful. He looked down at his half-eaten veal - _take that_, his stomach said triumphantly, _that'll teach you to be so confident_\- and tried to look sour and annoyed and fearful. It wasn't a stretch.

"A bit of a treat for you all," the Dark Lord was saying at the head of the table. "Dessert, if you will..."

The details escaped him, mostly because that horrible huge snake had taken up his attention and like a horrible floo mishap, he couldn't look away. When his mother nudged him, Draco looked up to see a line of what could only be Muggles, a family. Mother in a polka-dotted skirt that flared at the knee, father in jeans and a jumper, daughter staring around the room with wide interested, terrified eyes.

Fine, whatever. He found the idea of tormenting Muggles at dinner to be distasteful, himself, but he was off the active list until he could hold a wand again, so--

"As I understand it," Voldilocks continued, "Young Master Malfoy has healed up admirably from his unfortunate accident. Shall we have us a test?"

Draco felt his face drain of all colour. _I can't_ was on his tongue, but he flicked his glance at Snape, who sighed and turned away. _Shit!_ "I left my..." he mumbled, having used up all of his bravado in calling the Dark Lord "Voldilocks" in his head.

"Wand?" Lucius said from next to him. He brought it out, looking far too comfortable with it in his hand.

Draco lowered his brows, incensed. He held out his hand abruptly and was angry enough that he didn't even flinch when the movement quirked as yet unhealed whatevers in his wrist.

Lucius raised a brow. "Careful now," he teased, almost slipping the wand handle-end into Draco's hand. He jerked it away at the last moment, and Draco snatched at it by reflex. He succeeded, but bit back a cry at the sudden movement. Shouldn't have whinged on so much about getting the cast off. Shouldn't have been so obviously proud to be whole again. Shouldn't have shouldn't have - dammit. He composed himself quickly and turned back to the Muggle family. The Dark Lord gestured at him, and he woodenly obeyed, stepping out from around the table to stand in front of them.

"Go on, Young Malfoy," the hideous uber-powerful wizard encouraged.

"I can't..." he mumbled, unable to look at any of the Muggles straight on.

"Of course you can, dear boy..."

It was obscene, the Dark Lord saying "dear boy" like that, like... like he was _Dumbledore_ or something. The Dark Lord wasn't some naive old goat with grand delusions of forgiveness and solace and whatever other overly idealistic thing the old, dead headmaster had stood for. It rankled, and not because Draco had any lingering sentiments over the way Dumbledore had died or anything. Just because. And he _hated_ being told what to do, by the way. _Hated it._

Draco held out his wand, disappointed to find the tip of it shaking. He didn't have the control to hold it still, he thought. With an exhalation of breath, he dropped his arm and cupped his wrist with his other hand. "I can't," he said then, trying to look apologetic.

"Yes you can!" piped the daughter, maybe six years old. Good lord, she had pigtails. She had no idea what she was encouraging him to do, of course. Her parents looked like they had a better idea, though they still couldn't possibly know. Draco blinked quickly, then shook his head, staring at the ground.

"I can't," he repeated.

"Come now, Draco..." the Dark Lord hissed, sounding like he was having fun. "You're just a little squeamish. We're not asking you to kill anyone. This time. Just have a little fun, hm? Would it help if I went first?"

Draco looked up. It might help, actually. He hated Muggles. He wasn't squeamish about a little _Crucio_. It's just... the little girl kept _looking_ at him. Draco frowned. "Uh..." he began, and he wasn't sure quite what he'd been meaning to say, but when he looked up at the Dark Lord to start saying it anyway, he saw old Voldy's wand pointed straight at him and realised with a start what was about to--

Drive him to his knees in agony? It was over in half a second, but since he'd pitched forward on his hands by reflex, his right wrist had buckled and spilled him onto his shoulder awkwardly. He unwound himself and sat back up on his knees, feeling the bile rise in the back of his throat. The feeling was unlike any other, and necessarily invoked memories of every other instance of the curse he'd ever felt, three of which instances were less than two weeks old in his memory, and vivid. He tried to catch his breath.

"Come now, Draco," purred his father in his ear. Draco tensed. "Wouldn't want to embarrass us again, would you?"

"No," Draco breathed, allowing his father to pull him back to his feet. He shook, not from the residual trauma from the Dark Lord's understandably more excruciating curse, and not from fear and not from reluctance to curse these cowish Muggles, but from anger. It was one thing to have a Dark Lord toy with you in front of company - that was kinda what Dark Lords were known for. He was hardly the first Death Eater to've been driven to his knees; better than him had been, and for less.

No. What truly quirked him was his father thinking that threatening him was the way to go. Hadn't he proved that the man couldn't kill him, couldn't cow him, and couldn't even hurt him now? Lucius had no power over him.

None.

None, none, none -

Draco raised his wand again, wavering dangerously. There was a chance the curse'd go wild. Wouldn't it be spectacular if it misfired and hit the Dark Lord, lurking eagerly over at the table?

"You have to mean it," reminded Lucius.

"Oh," assured Draco, "I do." And he let loose, aiming for the father, imagining him with longer, lighter hair, dressed in robes and smirking that hideous smug smirk, holding a wand that wasn't his and even then - even then, he knew he was pale and shaking and not quite committed. The flash of red seared into his vision and was present, he thought, until long after the man had stopped jerking uncontrollably.

It wasn't a very good curse. It wasn't well cast, which was embarrassing even if everyone knew why he wasn't quite in form. It wasn't as committed as it might have been a year ago, and if it had been cast at Potter, whom he truly did hate. Because really, just because he thought cockroaches were lower lifeforms didn't mean he enjoyed pulling their legs off and watching them run around in circles.

Okay, so maybe he did. Or had, once. He'd grown out of it somewhat earlier than, say, Crabbe or Goyle. But of course, neither of them had been forcibly stepped up on the ladder of evil acts quite the same way he had been.

Now, though, he didn't relish the notion of plucking the legs off these Muggles, so to speak. He believed they were lesser beings – it was obvious they were less powerful. But he was finding that he also believed in the notion of some kind of balance. Muggles populated the world, came up with clever contraptions, and were entertaining in the way that monkeys in the zoo were entertaining. He certainly didn't want to wipe out the entire monkey species. It seemed a waste of time and effort.

Only, Mouldy-Wart said they'd multiply and find out about Wizard kind and set about destroying them all if they'd had half a chance, and that striking first was the way to go, and frankly, it was terrifying to think it might be true. There were a lot more of them than there were Wizards, especially pure-blooded, ancient families like his.

When the locusts came, you didn't think about whether or not they had families or feelings or the right to live. You thought about paving the way to your own survival, and then you burned the fuckers down.

Of course, locusts didn't look just like you, and their daughters didn't look at you with tears in their eyes because you'd just hurt their daddy. The sentiment wasn't lost on him; he'd been serious about taking his vengeance on Potter after he'd sent his own father to Azkaban, even if he had got side-tracked before he could carry it out. No, the sentiment wasn't lost, just... didn't mean much.

"Stop it!" The little girl stamped her foot and shrieked at him. "You're mean! Stop it!"

_Malfoys is mean in their blood. Malfoys can't help it._

"Shut up! Shut your filthy mouth!" he cried, and cursed her too, for thinking she could stop anything at all. _He_ couldn't, and he was a Wizard, was a Malfoy, was far more powerful. She crumpled, because she was only six after all. His clumsy _Crucio_ didn't have to pack much of a punch in order to get her to shut up.

And then he hugged his arm to his chest and doubled over it, the burning of torn whatevers and splintered other-things spreading up his arm. He felt hands on him and congratulatory back-slapping from happy Death Eaters, and more horribly, his father looking so proud - again - and he almost threw up right then and there from the pain in his wrist and the revulsion of having earned his father's love.

Or, if not love, admiration.

##

**"Y**ou've always been hard on him, Lucius," Snape said later that night, over brandies.

"Yes," Lucius sighed. "But on my own terms. I hate seeing him struggle. I thought I'd worked all of that weakness out of him."

Snape narrowed his eyes briefly. "Indeed," he murmured. "What you _did_ was fill his empty little head with the notion that he is better than absolutely everyone else and answers to no one. Did you really think that sort of attitude would serve him well in this company?" Snape knew what Lucius thought. Everyone had thought it, when their little babies had started talking and looking like tiny people, worming their ways into Death Eater families and bringing happiness and joy and all of the things Voldemort had promised but could never, ever deliver.

Voldemort was through, they thought. It's a shame, because power's really great to have, but it's time to move on, they thought.

"It _has_ served him well, Severus," Lucius insisted. "He's got nearly the top marks in his year, and he's a _Malfoy_," he reminded, smiling charmingly. "Doors are meant to swing open for him." He gestured widely with his brandy glass.

Snape sighed and sipped from his own drink. He'd be doing no favours to Draco by pointing out that the witch who'd bested him most often through his entire academic career was the Muggle-born best-friend-to-Potter, Granger. There was no changing Lucius' mind, after all. "He's going to be wrecked for at least another week after that stunt tonight, you know," Snape replied, changing the subject slightly.

Lucius raised a brow.

"Or did you know?" Snape continued slyly.

Lucius gestured vaguely. "It'll keep him out of trouble, at any rate."

Snape was impressed. And disgusted. And decided right on the spot that Lucius was far more dangerous as a sane-appearing lunatic than he'd ever been as a cold, calculating man of evil.

"I'll just go check on him, then, shall I?" Lucius said, slurring just a bit. A year off drink and the man was flimsy as a school boy.

"I don't think so, Lucius," Snape said mildly. "I think he's still quite upset with you."

"What? For that?" Lucius said indignantly. "I did that boy a favour." He took another pull of brandy and rolled it around his mouth thoughtfully. "If he manages to embarrass this family any further, I'll have to kill him myself."

"Remind me not to let you do me any favours," Snape said without humour. Unfortunately for Lucius and Draco alike, the elder Malfoy probably wasn't wrong, even if it'd be accidental. Of course that assumed he didn't drive Draco spare first and get himself killed.

##

"**Y**ou summoned me, my Lord?" Snape said half an hour later. It was late. The events of the evening had worn him out. Draco had been so cheerful before the Muggle family – and how had he not found out about that ahead of time? Was he slipping? Was _affection_ for the Malfoy boy _causing_ him to slip? How revolting. He watched the Dark Lord carefully, blanking his mind.

Voldemort wasn't even paying attention to him. He glided around the room majestically. "Severus," he rasped breathily. "I have need of you."

"Of course, my Lord," Snape replied.

"Hogwarts needs a new headmaster. You're long overdue for a promotion."

Snape's face didn't so much as flicker, and although the press of disgust and rage seethed under the surface, the part of his mind accessible to the skimming stones of the Dark Lord was smooth as glass-water. He allowed the ripples to spread, and otherwise easily kept his cool.

"Narcissa has persuaded me to allow her son to attend his seventh year." Voldemort tilted his head and smiled thinly. "But what good is a boy who can't even charm a teacup?"

Snape frowned slightly and immediately regretted it. "It will keep him from being underfoot here at the Manor," he reasoned disinterestedly.

The Dark Lord's wan smile went leering. "There are better uses for him. Target practice? Entertainment..."

Snape frowned again. Lucius' plan to keep Draco out of the action was backfiring spectacularly, being teased apart even as he watched. "My Lord," he entreated, "whatever pleases you to do. But the boy has a head for planning and will be healed up within weeks-" He stopped short when the Dark Lord's gaze snapped to him in triumph. Snape cleared his mind, but of course it was already too late. Damn.

"Send for young Malfoy," he commanded.

##

**D**raco batted away the hands tugging him out of bed sleepily, and then the pain of his re-cast wrist caught up with him and he sat up, curling over his arm held to his chest. "What!" he snapped irritably. "I was sleeping!"

Fenrir Greyback sneered greedily at him and grabbed him by the neck. Draco froze in the werewolf's grip as he leaned in to snuffle at his ear. "Dark Lord wants you," he murmured.

Draco choked a little, on Greyback's breath and from the long nailed fingers digging into his windpipe. He clawed at the werewolf's arm with his left hand, staring at him in terror and trying to breathe.

"That's enough, Mister Greyback." Snape's oily voice was only slightly unwelcome. Draco fell back into his pillows with his hand at his neck, drawing huge breaths and taking turns giving the Potions master and the werewolf his most baleful look.

"It's the middle of the night," he ventured, coughing a little. He frowned at Snape genuinely then, worried. "What's he want with me?" Honestly, he was a little surprised to hear he'd stayed after supper. Voldilocks was away more than he was around, of late.

"I'm sure I do not know," Snape replied coolly, and Draco glared at him as he flipped the coverlet aside and slipped into a robe and slippers.

As usual, Mouldy Voldy kept his company in a dark room in front of a blazing fireplace. It was late, though, and Draco suddenly realised no one else was awake, not even his parents. It was just him, Snape, Greyback, and -

"Bring him in, then leave us."

Shit, oh- shit. Draco blanked his mind. He was a good Occlumens; he could keep it together. Possibly.

Greyback dragged a big blond Death Eater into the room, already looking worse for the wear. He shook, and Draco's eyes widened as he recognised the tremors from experience. Oh no. No no no-

"A nice night, isn't it!" the Dark Lord shrieked, enraged. He whirled around the room cloaked in living black smoke which seemed to embody his anger. Wherever it touched Draco, his skin felt cool and hot at once. It was so much easier to make mental jokes at the Dark Lord's expense when he wasn't exuding threat and crazed hostility in such very close quarters, alone with him in the middle of the night.

"Time to work out some of that squeamishness," the Dark Lord said then to Draco, turning to him without bothering to cover up the fervent glee he obviously felt. "He needs punishing."

Draco's brows knitted together. But even Snape couldn't get him out of this. Dammit - He didn't need rescuing! He was a Malfoy. He was – was a Death Eater. Mark and all. He pulled out his wand and bit back a cry of agony. Oh God, he was going to die right here, in the middle of the night in his own house, without his parents or Snape or anyone at all –

He flicked a glance at the Dark Lord and swallowed roughly. Fine, all right. He switched his wand to his left hand and sent up a prayer to a God he didn't believe in. Don't go wild, he prayed. Don't fizzle out. He held out his wand and was pleased to see the point of it didn't shake.

"Do it!"

"_Crucio!_" The word was out before the Dark Lord had even finished the command. Rowle writhed on the flagstone floor, calling out through gritted teeth a name that agony had mangled beyond recognition. Draco froze there, wand outstretched, certain he was committing his last acts. That certainly hadn't been good enough, and he felt tears threatening, embarrassing and hot on his bottom lids. He couldn't do it again. He didn't have the practice, he didn't have the control in his non-dominant hand for such serious magic. Fear built up pressure in his chest. He stomach rolled painfully.

The Dark Lord stalked around his prey. "More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time..."

Draco shuddered, though he tried to repress it. Last time he'd watched someone fed to Nagini, he'd passed out. But his options were let Rowle get eaten, or try another _Crucio_ and probably fail, and then be killed himself. He silently prayed for Rowle to choose death.

"You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure ... Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!"

Draco froze, staring at Rowle. _Crucio_ Rowle or get it again himself? No question. He couldn't take it again. Not after his father, not after the Dark Lord earlier that day. He couldn't handle it again. But still he stood there, frozen in fear and a reluctance which tasted bitter and foul in his mouth; he knew what it felt like, and he realised with a sickening lurch that he didn't want to be its cause. A log fell on the fire, lighting up the room in sharp angles for half a moment. The tears in his eyes sparked like diamonds, momentarily whiting out his vision, and he pulled back his hand to dash them away, only to fall crashing to the ground a moment later as every nerve in his body screamed bloody murder at him.

The Dark Lord bent over him, to get face to face. "Do you think I'm messing about?" he breathed angrily.

"N-no, my Lord," Draco whispered.

"Then get up, young Malfoy. And show us how obedient you are."

Draco collected himself as quickly as possible, gracelessly jerking his robe over one shoulder and letting his far-flung slipper lay where it fell feet away. He stretched out his wand in his left hand again. "_C-Crucio_," he murmured shakily.

"You have to mean it..."

"_Crucio,_" he said again, a little louder.

"Mean it!"

"_Crucio!"_ Draco shrieked, then fell backward into the armchair, watching Rowle twitch and jerk uncontrollably. He didn't remember getting back to his rooms, but when he woke up there the next morning, he threw up in the toilet bowl and laughed giddily at his amazingly charmed life.

Didn't die, again.

##

**"M**ister Malfoy," Snape said from the library doors.

Draco jumped, then spun around from his desk and scowled. "I'm sorry," he seethed. "Don't they teach lying bastards to knock?"

"Excuse me?" Snape growled silkily.

Draco ignored the flare of warning in his stomach. "Oh, did I touch a nerve?" He blinked wide innocent eyes. "You aren't _really_ a bastard, are you?" He dropped the act and scowled again before turning pointedly back to his books.

He heard Snape sigh heavily, and he didn't feel a single drop of remorse. By now, the popular rumour that the Potions professor was only a half-blood had reached even the Malfoy compound, where information was often exchanged, but never shared. And he was still pissed at Snape, even if he did only barely remember why.

Oh right. Because he'd drugged him.

Snape sat in the chair his father'd sat in when he'd come in proposing that stupid party. The chair Draco'd stared at the legs of for however long until he'd mostly passed out, that night Snape had... Oh fine. _Saved him_, if one wanted to be technical about it. He sighed and turned to the professor.

"Did you want something?" he asked wearily.

"No," Snape said. "I just come here for the verbal abuse."

"Do you want me to apologise?" Draco asked.

"Believe it or not," Snape murmured, "I expect you to be a horrible wretch of a boy, so an apology will not be necessary."

Draco frowned. That wasn't what he'd expected. And he was a bit taken aback. He wasn't horrible! "I'm still angry with you," he explained testily.

"I can see that. Because of last night?"

Draco frowned. "No. I know you didn't have a choice."

Snape tilted his head slightly. "Mind telling me why, then?"

Draco toyed with saying _If you don't know, it's not worth telling you_, but decided it was a bad risk. Instead, he frowned and turned slightly back to his work. "I've got revisions..." he murmured.

"Don't tell me the brilliant Mister Malfoy _forgot_ why he was angry at someone," Snape sniped silkily.

Draco huffed. "Did you come here to taunt me, or was there some sort of purpose to this visit?"

Snape frowned and watched him a moment, consideringly. "You're even more foul than you usually are," he observed, looking almost entertained by it.

Draco shot him a look, laced with every foul thought he could think up. Then his brows raised when Snape plucked the quill from his lax fingers. The reflex to keep hold of it shot agony up his arm. Still, he tried to grab for it even as Snape leaned back to read what was engraved along the side of it out of Draco's reach.

"Dicta-quill?" Snape read, raising a brow.

Draco fumed.

Snape did that thing where he looked almost concerned, almost human. "I'll give you something-"

"I don't want anything!" Draco snapped. "I don't want _you_ to give me anything."

"Oh, I see," Snape said, sounding very much like he did see. "I'm not going to beg for a 17 year old boy to trust me, Mister Malfoy. I am not in the habit of poisoning students. If I had wanted you dead-"

"You didn't want me dead. You wanted me _weak_."

"Is that what this is about? I wanted to have power over you?" Snape sighed a long-suffering sigh. "I _have_ power over you. Perhaps you've been mistaking teacher's robes for pyjamas?"

Draco turned back to his parchment, even though he didn't have a pen any more with which to write. Snape was right, of course, but that was different. This was his _home_.

"If you want to suffer alone, I won't stop you," Snape continued. "But you may find yourself in a considerably better mood if you will at least take something for the pain. I designed the curse that snapped your wrist like a twig-"

"I know. You've mentioned," Draco said sourly. Horrible bastard.

"So I _know_ what it does." He rummaged in his sleeve and produced a small vial of something blood red and sluggish.

Draco gave it a cursory look, then went back to pouting at his schoolwork. "I don't want-" he began, then stopped, unsure about the finish. "Is that all you came here for," he said wearily, holding out his hand for his quill back. He ignored the stabbing pain.

"No," Snape said, sounding similarly fatigued. He pressed the quill into Draco's waiting palm. "I've come on a different errand altogether-"

"And you happen to carry _that_-" Draco spat, gesturing with his eyebrows at the vial on his desk. "-with you at all times?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "I happen to occasionally find use for it," he replied mildly, then changed the subject. "I've come to talk with you about a rather delicate matter."

Draco swallowed. Delicate matters were rarely full of sunshine and joy. "What's happened?" he murmured, feeling himself go white.

"Nothing," Snape said, brightening a little. Pleased to see Draco on edge, Draco thought darkly. The entire world was out to see his stomach turn him inside out. "I've taken an interest in seeing you survive this war, Draco."

Draco frowned in distrust. "Why?"

The professor raised a brow. "I need a reason to wish to see children survive?"

"Yes." Draco refused to budge. "And I'm not a child."

Snape sighed. "Clearly I have a reason. I've made an Oath, remember?"

Draco's enthusiastic pessimism deflated a bit, even though his suspicions had been vindicated. It was a confusing reality. "I knew it," he said sharply. "I'm going back to school next month. I'll be safe enough there."

Snape frowned slightly. "The school won't be nearly so safe as you might think. Consider your situation."

Draco did, and it only took moments for it to dawn on him that instead of being hated by three quarters of the school and idolised - and protected - by the other fourth, he was instead walking into a building where three quarters of the population reviled him vehemently, and the other fourth were under delusions, possibly based upon fact, that their parents' Dark Lord wanted him dead.

"Oh," he said listlessly.

"That's right. 'Oh.' But in point of fact, what I am referring specifically to in this case is your safety while you are still at home."

"Father-" Draco started, caught halfway between being incensed that Snape thought he had a right to meddle in family affairs and the uncomfortable notion that he welcomed the professor's concern.

Snape didn't let him go on. "Your father, for all of his faults, has your best interests at heart."

"Of course he does," Draco spat.

"This isn't about him," Snape continued smoothly, ignoring him, which put Draco's back up. "It is in fact about your continued service to our Lord, who may or may not wish you to suffer."

Draco sighed. "Haven't I suffered enough?" he said exasperated. "I'm not a fool. I know well enough to know he doesn't consider me anything other than a plaything. None of this is to groom me for missions or further service. I've succeeded. I've made up for Luci-- Father's mistakes. I've paid! Can't he just get _over_-"

Snape's hand was clapped over his mouth in less than a moment, and Draco froze. The professor was on his feet and had his other hand fast around the back of Draco's neck. His nails dug into his cheeks painfully as Snape forced him to look up into his face.

"Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?" the professor snarled at him, _sotto voce_.

Draco blinked rapidly up at Snape, breathing through his nose. _No_, he shook his head vehemently, as well as he could with it seized between two vise grips the way it was. He winced.

"You'll keep your mouth shut or I will kill you myself!"

Draco nodded fearfully.

"I don't have time to play at being delicate with your sensibilities, Mister Malfoy," Snape hissed.

Draco swallowed, eyes wide. Okay, Snape's completely terrifying, his brain said, but he's not going to _kill_ you, because he's supposedly come here to tell you how to stay alive. And remind me, again, why you had to be a smartarse about that? _Shut the hell up, brain. I didn't see you holding me back._

Snape continued, thankfully oblivious to Draco's impending pants-wetting extravaganza. "So I will say this once, and you _will_ heed it. Do _not_ wave around your wand or anyone else's in sight of our Lord. Even if you're fighting at his side. Do not have a wand in your hand. Do _not_."

He waited for Draco to nod, which meant they stayed in the position of clampee and clamper for a few seconds before Draco gathered the wherewithall to nod again. Only then did Snape release him, and Draco massaged his jaw with his left hand while he stared in shock at the desktop. He didn't even have the nerve to ask why.

When he heard the library doors close after the professor's exit, Draco allowed himself to breathe, and breathe he did. Hard. Shit. _Shit!_ God he wasn't going to survive this, never in a million years, not if even Snape, the only person who had a vested interest in his continued existence, could threaten to kill him with such uncharacteristic passion.

Damn it. Draco stared at his books for a moment, then moaned softly and laid his head on his arms, shoulders shaking. Shit, shit, shit. He didn't want to die. He couldn't figure out how to stay alive. He couldn't figure out who wanted him dead, or why those who wanted him alive apparently had no problems with killing him themselves. It briefly occurred to him that his brain might have been right, that he was a complete arsehole, that mistrusting Snape, the man whom had been referred to at least three times in his internal dialogue as the only person actively helping him to survive, was probably the least effective way to get what he wanted. So why couldn't he just be _civil_? It seemed so easy to say it. So _why_-

Because every time he thought of smiling nicely and saying thank you, his stomach rolled and his face got warm and his mouth curled into a snarl and instead of being charming, he found reasons to be annoyed or pissed off.

Draco stopped sniffling a few minutes later and started his essay where he'd left off.

##

**S**nape stayed just outside the library door until he heard Draco's voice dictating in an essay-like cadence, dull and hoarse. Of course, it wasn't _pleasant_, making a boy cry, least of all at Draco's age. It was more horrible when one was expected to be a man about everything, but he hadn't lied; Snape didn't have time to make Malfoy feel cheerful about everything. When it all came out - _if_ it all came out - the boy might find solace in knowing that Snape had tried to protect him. But Gods he was unpleasant. A right little snot about absolutely everything.

_You were the same way, and still are._

Snape sighed.


	8. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some Muggles are terribly frightened and there is a father-son shopping trip.

**"Y**ou're going back to school in a week," Lucius said from the doorway of the library.

Draco looked up, then looked past him for Snape's reliable oily head.

"He's gone back to the castle, my boy," Lucius purred. "Important Hogwarts things to attend to."

Draco swallowed drily. "What do I care?" he replied rebelliously. "Something I can help you with, Father?"

Lucius smiled, glancing down at the wand in Draco's hand. He'd gotten some control back since the disastrous situation with Rowle, but he wasn't near confident. He'd rather hoped he'd be spared from having to defend himself for the rest of his time at home. He tightened his grip, and his father looked back up at him, smile turning forced.

"Our Lord insists you put in just one more mission before you're allowed to go back. He seems to think you might still be a bit too squeamish."

Draco frowned and did some calculations. Chances he could tell his father what he thought of _that_ idea without him going spare again, as compared to the chance that he wouldn't survive defying the DL? Draco sighed. "Yes, fine. What am I meant to do this time?"

"You look a little less eager than you ought," Lucius said shrewdly, narrowing his eyes in speculation. "Shall I try to beg him off for you? Not sure I'd survive it, but I'm sure you won't mind either way."

Draco quirked a brow and watched his father from the corner of his eye. He had that wild-eyed look about him again, but his words seemed at odds with his manner. He was... petulant? Irritated that Draco might not mind if he kicked off. Well, what did he expect? Draco tilted his head. "Better not. Mother'd be difficult to get on with if you died. She seems to be quite fond of you."

Lucius frowned darkly, lighting up a flare of dread in Draco's suddenly uneasy stomach. Stupid! Snape was gone, Mother had no idea the monster she'd married, and Voldy-wart would have rejoiced to find his loyal slaves had chastened themselves by killing each other.

But Draco's father didn't move a muscle for almost twenty seconds, after which Draco bravely said, "Well,I'd best go find out what I'm to do," and backed away toward the door of the library.

"I'm not finished with you!" his father called. "Draco, come back here this instant!"

His father's desperate cry echoed after him as he fled down the corridor toward the drawing room, where V liked to proclaim dramatic things in front of a fire even in summer. It struck him moments into flight that a much healthier frame of mind would be to fear the Dark Lord _more_ than his father, but it didn't stop his feet pattering on toward certain doom.

As luck would have it - someone else's luck, he decided, not his own - Mouldy-wart wasn't in attendance, again. He was often off somewhere these days, not that Draco was complaining. He gave them stupid little missions to do whatever, but they were run by older, less hideously disfigured people, though in some cases not by much. Draco loitered around trying to blend in and wondered vacantly whether they'd be going to Grimmauld Place, because he'd been hearing the name here and there but hadn't yet been told why there seemed to be a shift of DEs at his mum's cousin's old house at any given hour. He had half a mind to tag along on one of those missions anyway, just to see.

For now, however, he had a very important task to do: tag along on _this_ mission and try not to get killed by the Good Guys, the Bad Guys, or by Being Stupid, and try not to actually do anything, because he was having a hard time getting the strange, terrified face of a Burbage-Ollivander-Rowle-Muggle-Family creature out of his head lately, and didn't want to add to the menagerie.

It was Pansy's father, Mr Parkinson, leading the meeting, and Draco vaguely wondered where Pansy was before deciding her dad probably cared too much about her to get her mixed up in something so dangerous, unlike _his_ horrible crazed lunatic of a father. The man carried on at the front of the room, giving them all a good show of not saying much with a very lot of breath before hastily talking about Flying Muggles and how they were going to go visit the largest Muggle Aeroport in Britain.

Flying Muggles was like saying Graceful Sea Lions. You'd never expect to see one, and you'd imagine if you could, they'd look really terrified at what was happening to them without their permission. But if Mr Parkinson was convinced, and Mouldy-wart had given okay on it, Draco's interest was piqued. He'd always thought Muggles made up some very entertaining contraptions on the rare occasions he'd had reason to be exposed to them. He was keen on a rare trip to the Zoo, even if it did mean dressing in Muggle clothes and riding in a Car and not Apparating or flying themselves.

The Zoo, as Draco'd been calling it, was a dizzying and exhilarating experience from the outset. Had he thought King's Cross was busy and horrid? He'd been mismanaged. King's Cross was _nothing_ compared to Heathrow Aeroport. After a childhood of countryside and tutors and vacations to still more decadently remote countrysides, even Hogwarts had seemed a little overstuffed when he was a First Year. But this? Was starting to turn his stomach into knots even as he gazed at the expansive lobby area in wonder.

"All right lads," Mr Parkinson mumbled nervously. Draco barely knew him as anything other than Pansy's pater, but he hadn't seemed the nervous sort. Perhaps he was as overwhelmed as Draco felt. Distantly, the face of Burbage wailed in his mind, crying, "Should have took my class!" like a horrible comical ghost with poor grammar. Draco agreed with her; Muggle Studies would have been helpful when trying to decide how to kill as many of them as possible, could have helped them blend in or know where their weak points were. As it was, they stood out like dreary strange religious nuts among the brightly- coloured Muggle population - which, he supposed, they were.

"Hang on," he murmured, pulling one of the company to a stop and thus the rest of them, who'd clumped together instinctively for protection against the hordes of cheerful cows. "We look suspicious. Why don't we have a better plan? We need more information!"

"We don't need a better plan," the one he'd snatched onto hissed irritably. "It isn't as though they'll be able to defend against _us_."

Draco made a face. What was _wrong_ with these people? It was folly to assume too little about the enemy. If his father'd been running things, there'd _certainly_ have been a more detailed plan of action. Lucius never left anything to accident.

"Right," he replied dubiously, glancing around.

"Now _you're_ making us look suspicious," the same DE said nervously, smacking him on the shoulder.

Draco scowled at him and looked over. "Look, Mr Parkinson-"

"That's enough, _young_ Malfoy," Parkinson interrupted. He smiled knowingly, which put panic in Draco's chest. He didn't like people knowing more than he did - it meant he was soon to be unpleasantly surprised.

"No, I really don't think it is," Draco spat back, leaning in close. "What do you think we're going to do? Walk right up and-" He broke off as a security agent in a Muggle uniform of Authority walked by. He smiled a little apologetically at the man, hoping he thought they were all just religious nuts having a little spat, and triumphed when the security agent lifted a hand in greeting before passing on by. Draco sighed in relief.

"And just what do you think they'll stop us with, Draco?" Mr Parkinson looked at him with pity, and Draco bristled at the use of his given name during a '"business meeting".

"How should I know?" he shot back. "Animals defend themselves. Muggles aren't different. If they're as horrible as you say they are, they've certainly discovered how to hurt each other." The notion that learning violence should be _more_ evolved tickled the back of his mind; Wizards had been fighting horrible glorious wars for centuries over this and that. Was that evolved? Superior? Certainly confirmed the whole Might is Right theory; Wizards had the Might. "We should rethink-"

"There's nothing to think about." Parkinson jerked his chin and the others followed, somewhat reluctantly, Draco thought. He'd nearly gotten through to some of them, he could tell. A minor success, but success nonetheless.

So the "plan" was to hang about waiting for Aeroplanes to lift off, then blast jinxes at them to bring them down. When they'd gotten closer to the Aeroport, it was clear that plan'd been far too small; 'Planes were quite large, as it turned out. Draco'd been trying so hard not to pay attention to what they were doing there - _killing people_ \- that it only occurred to him once they were trooping nervously down long corridors gawking that there was a decided lack of sweeping up on brooms and blasting away in their bare-bones plan. But Parkinson must have known _something_ ahead of time; Draco did the rough maths in his head and took only moments to realise that 'Planes that big which got that small in the sky must have been going at least three times the speed of the fastest model broom. So the new plan, such as it was, was to try to board a 'Plane and blast the engine before Apparating out. As Draco hadn't had his Apparation test yet - far too busy when his Sixth Year classmates were having a laugh splinching themselves, and why did anyone care whether he'd get in trouble about it? - he was supposed to stay on the ground and keep a watchful eye.

Only, they required billets to board and little books with their photos in, and none of them had Muggle money for billets or little books with photos in - Draco could have shouted at the lack of planning. But the mission could still be a success. Caution, distraction, charm. "Listen," he said softly as the eight of them approached the gate. "I'm going to try to get on, if one of you will split the gate woman's attention. I won't be able to stay on, but that's all right." Hadn't he been trying very hard not to _do anything_?

"All right?" Mincer replied doubtfully. "But how will-"

"I have a plan. Trust me."

To his surprise, Mincer did and relayed his instructions to Parkinson as though he'd come up with the idea in the first place, which was irritating but had the happy side effect of Parkinson agreeing to the idea. Draco warmed up his Charming Face, trying to decide between worried son and eager beau. Worried son had the advantage of him being able to subtly flirt with the gate mistress, who looked in her early twenties, but eager beau would mean that a) he wouldn't have to flirt with a Muggle girl, and b) he'd have a better chance getting on - there were more things between lovers that had to be passed on in person than there were between parents and children.

"Excuse me," he said politely to the girl. Despite what Snape had said, he _was_ capable of not being horrible.

She looked up at him expectantly, and he realised after a moment she was waiting for him to hand her his billet.

"Oh," he recovered, looking apologetic. "I haven't got a ... see I was meant to meet my girlfriend before she boarded, but I'm afraid, er, rather..." He trailed off, raising a brow at the man at the service counter who'd just erupted into vociferous argument, on cue. Atta boy, Mincer. He looked back at the girl with his brows together, a half-smile on his lips. "I don't mean to cause you any trouble."

She carefully did _not_ roll her eyes at the argument going on behind her and leaned in. "I'll just ring the flight attendant and ask if she'll come back out for you, then? What's her name?"

Draco frowned. Ring in? Oh, _telephones_. Damn and double damn. "Oh, she said she was stuck in, next to the window. She's nervous with 'Plane travel, you see." He hoped that was common enough a fear the girl would understand it. It would have been for him, had he been a Squib trying to fly in an enormous machine that should have never been able to get off the ground.

The girl made a sympathetic face. "Still, without a ticket..."

Draco looked around in disappointment, faking it only a little as he tried to salvage the ruse. Down at the end of the aisle leading to the Aeroplane, items had been piled for - well he imagined they weren't allowed and would be sent along later. Among them, a fold-up pram. "She's with our small child, actually," he lied wildly. "Please, it'll be such a pain to have her come out with-" Pink soft toys, tiny ruffled bonnet. "-her. Will you help me?"

The girl looked from him to over her shoulder at the impressively irate Mincer, drawing, Draco hoped, the proper comparison between a patron whose temper abused service representatives and himself, who was nothing but conciliatory and polite. It'd drive her to want to reward him, since she couldn't punish the other. Let it never be said that Draco Malfoy didn't know how to get to people.

The girl smiled at him fiendishly then. "I think we can do something about that," she leaned in to say. "Flight takes off in ten minutes. You'll need to be back before then, or security _will_ escort you." She jotted a noted on a slip of paper. "Show this to the dark haired attendant if you're stopped. She's a girlfriend of mine."

Draco took it with a grateful smile and swept hurriedly down the corridor, cataloguing away the details of the experience. He rounded the corner and was met with a portal to the beastly machine, looking too small for the size of the rest of it. He could see through the plastic windows in the corridor, how it extended like a lumbering torpedo, wings splayed out to either side. He'd have thought they'd have some give, look more like birds' wings; surely it hadn't escaped Muggle notice that wings ought to have joints in them so that they could flap and gain height. He'd have to find a book about it after the mission.

The attendant didn't stop him, as they both appeared to be in a hurry, but even if she thought he was simply a passenger, he still only had ten minutes before security agents bumbled on board to arrest him. Laughable as that threat was, he didn't want to endanger the mission by drawing suspicion. He'd hoped the corridor led outside, because he'd seen moving staircases on the paveway, but this Aeroplane was apparently too large for such a thing. All the same, he thought he could manage it.

Hope died a moment later when he realised the windows couldn't open. Of course - he imagined that high up, going that fast, open windows would be unpleasant, not to mention deadly. He sighed and looked around the cabin. He could _Imperious_ someone to do some nefarious deed once the 'Plane was up. There were a couple of beefy looking fellows. Or there was the youngish, pretty red-head - oh, but she had an infant and it'd be difficult-

Draco mentally smacked his palm to his forehead. What did he care whether it'd be difficult? She'd be dead within the hour.

The weight of the thought only hit him moments later: it wasn't so casual as all of that. It couldn't be. The young woman looked up at him with a concerned smile because, he imagined, he'd gone that unattractive grey colour again and probably looked like he'd fall over any moment.

"Nervous flier?" she said in an American accent. "Don't worry. Once we're in the air, you won't even- Ohh, what's the matter? Oh shhh..." she cooed. It took Draco a moment of staring to realise she wasn't talking to him any more, and was instead addressing the child, who'd begun clucking in want.

"Fine, I'm fine," he muttered, moving past her toward where the sign said the lavatory would be. It ended up just being a closet of sorts, but the design was rather clever. If he'd had an incendiary, he could have tossed it in the bog and been done with it. Really, it was as though these Muggles didn't know there was a mad Dark Lord out to rid the earth of them all. Draco leaned forward on the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. It was so like Sixth Year, only instead of a few months, he had... probably about six more minutes to come up with a plan. Oh, and his hair was a bit longer. But other than those things, and the fact that instead of just one person, he was trying to kill a hundred, it was _just_ like Sixth Year.

He still had that coin. He'd kept it in his pocket as a reminder that no matter what everyone else had said, he hadn't failed. The charm on it wasn't simple, but now that he'd done it several times, it could be done pretty quickly. Could he modify it so that rather than simply get warm, it actually _did_ something? Say... burst into pyrotechnics on command? He thought he could. It was a simple matter of Charms, which he hadn't been stellar at in school, but had got a lot of practice at extracurricularly.

Hurriedly, he pulled the coin from his pocket, and another coin to make the trigger. A few muttered words and a careful swish of the wand later, and he'd - he hoped - made a pretty innocent-looking instrument of destruction. With three more minutes to spare, he created the sister coin that he'd take with him and on a whim dropped the first into the toilet. No sense chancing some last minute crewman finding a strange piece of money and making off with it before the 'Plane took to flight. He bopped the flusher and stepped out into the cabin again to rush down the aisle even as two security guards started toward him.

"Sorry, so sorry," he said, grinning sheepishly. He didn't have to force it; he'd meant to be on and off and having taken up almost all of his time was a little embarrassing. Small aisles notwithstanding, one of the security agents let him pass so they'd be on both sides of him, and as they passed the young red-haired woman with her child, he smiled lovingly and said, "I feel so much better now. Have a safe trip!" blessing as he did the charm that kept his dangerous life in balance. In one movement he'd given the guards a reason for his attendance at the toilets _and_ made them witness to his finding his "girlfriend," in case they were questioned. Flanked as he was, he was forced passed her before her presence could do his morale any more harm. They trooped three across down the corridor, and he broke free of his guards to rejoin his team and let them in on the plan.

Mincer swiped the coin from his palm when he presented it. "What's the charm to make it go, then?" he wondered, turning the coin this way in that despite it looking like any other coin that _hadn't_ been charmed to do disastrous acts.

"_Fugit Incendio_," Draco replied, pleased with himself.

"Fugit," Mincer's business partner, Apatome chuckled, taking the coin from Mincer to look at it. "Clever."

"Oh, sir!" called the gate mistress, hurrying toward them smilingly. Draco turned, ready to bask in yet another ruse unspoiled. Things were going very well. Mission carried off, no loose ends to get tangled in, and none of his team seemed to be secretly trying to kill him. "I _am_ sorry security took you out so soon. I tried to keep them back a little. You have the most _darling_ little girl."

Draco stared, smile waning just a little. "Yes, she is, isn't she?" he replied drily.

"Cor, Dray, you don't have a daughter do you? Might young for it, I thought," Draper said quizzically.

"You don't...?" the gate mistress murmured, suddenly blanching in doubt.

Draco widened his eyes even as Mincer smacked Draper across the back of the head. In the same moment, Apatome laughed his big horsey laugh and turned on the spot. The loud crack of his _Apparation_ did more than turn heads; the Muggle population who weren't in uniforms of authority wailed as one, throwing themselves to the ground. Draco crooked a brow. Sure, it was loud, but it was just _Apparation_. It wasn't as if the person who was clearly not there any more were going to - oh _shit_, he had the coin. Dread sank into Draco's stomach; the instant it touched bottom, he realised that while his plan had been good, _he'd never intended to carry it out._ But the coin wasn't in his pocket any more, and the lives of a hundred people weren't in his hands any more, and those were the least of his worries.

Bearing down on them were nearly a dozen of Britain's finest sort of lawmen, the Aurors of the Muggle world. Come to... shout at them? Surely not -

"Put your hands down, then," one of them called nervously. Draco looked over at Mincer, who had his wand out.

"They've done something!" cried the gate mistress from the floor where she'd flung herself, looking up at Draco in stung betrayal.

"Ha!" cried Mincer, and gestured with his wand. In the next moment, another loud crack signified that--

No one had Apparated out. Draco counted again. Still seven of them, counting himself, except that Mincer was on the ground, groaning and rolling around, clutching his shoulder. He looked back at the security force, all of which had drawn their own sorts of weapons. Incensed, the rest of his team appeared to want to make a fight of it, and he reasoned there was no point in hiding themselves from Muggles any more. He pulled his wand, bit back a cry at the strike of pain the movement caused, then looked back down at the girl before dropping to his knees.

"You have to get everyone off the 'Plane," he hissed, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her knees. "Do it, don't ask why, don't even look for anything - you won't find it. Just get everyone off, _now_."

"Let the hostage go!" shouted one of the security force agents, having noticed him.

Draco turned, then felt the swift sinking sensation of having been kneed in the stomach before he doubled over. He counted again from the corner of his eye - three down now, only himself and three others remained in the fight, even though he wasn't _in_ the fight, and couldn't-

"What are you doing!" hissed Mr Parkinson, looking after the girl who'd taken off at a run back to the gate to, presumably, call the Plane back. He took aim. Draco was faster.

"_Impedimentia_," he hissed, the effect weak because of his horrible form. But he hadn't wanted to incapacitate the older man anyway, just buy the girl some time. He looked at the tide the fight was taking, blood spattered on the floor. Members of his team were groaning or lay unmoving, and he didn't care even a little. They hadn't listened to him and deserved what they got for assuming Muggles hadn't figured out how to defend themselves.

Mr Parkinson twisted a look of revulsion at him. "What have you done?" he hissed, pointing his wand at Draco.

"Nothing you'll remember. _Obliviate!_" And that was just about as much as his poor badly healed wrist could take. Cupping it to his chest, he turned on the spot and fled, because being a coward was better than being dead. Maybe by the time Voldy learnt that no Muggle Aeroplanes had broken up in the sky over London, he'd be safe at school in the castle. And if not, well... he'd just explain that he had to flee because he couldn't fight, and then he'd let his father explain why.

The notion almost cheered him up, half collapsed as he was at the gates of the Manor. "Mum," he croaked to the gate. He was almost certain he'd be well enough to walk up to the house himself in a few minutes, but putting on a show of how hard he'd tried to stay and fight past his ability seemed like a good idea, as did the notion of sitting in the grass against the cool comfortable stone pillar of his own gate to his own house.

As it was, she flew to his side quicker than a woman her age ought to have been able to move and didn't leave him a lot of time to recover, so that while it might have seemed like a good idea at the time, the childishness of having called for his mum didn't have time to dawn on him before she'd got out and only occurred to him once she was there, worrying over him.

"Draco!" she murmured, fluttering her hands over him in a motherly search for injury. "What happened?"

He waved her off. "I don't think we're supposed to talk about it," he replied, embarrassed. He let her appear to help him to his feet, the ache in his diaphragm starting to dissipate since he'd been allowed to sit and catch his breath unmolested. "Has Apatome returned?" Not that it mattered now. He could blow up the 'Plane if he liked, but there'd hopefully be no one on it. And why did that matter? Because, he reasoned hastily, they didn't have evidence that all of those people were really Muggles; some could have been descended from Squibs who'd resettled in Muggle lands where they'd fit in better. There could have been Wizard blood on that plane.

_Charity Burbage had been a Wizard._ Harry Potter was a Wizard. What mattered more? Killing Muggles and preserving Wizard-kind, or killing anyone who stood in the way of power?

"A bit ago, crowing about his plan," she murmured, looking at him shrewdly. "But it sounded far too clever for him."

Draco flushed pink. "Er..." So much for not talking about their missions. "Parkinson doesn't know what he's doing. He'd have got us all killed. I'm not so sure he didn't - you notice I've come back alone."

"Come along then," his mother said, looking around them in suspicion. "I'll have Liddy draw you a bath. You look a fright."

Draco nodded and trailed her slightly, wrestling with himself. Out here, on the stone pathway which wended through the peacocks, it seemed so much safer than inside the Manor, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to pitch a tent on the lawn and never go back in, bloody-minded peacocks be damned. "Mum," he said uncertainly.

"Darling?" she murmured, stopping to watch him carefully from the corner of her eye.

"Nothing. Never mind." They walked on again in silence for a few more moments before he broke it to say, "Mum, I - I'm glad nothing's happened to you. Or Father." Yes, he decided. He meant it. No matter how the stress had warped him, he loved his father. "I just wanted to say that, in case..."

She pursed her lips. "It's unlike you to be so morbid, darling," she admonished.

Draco looked at the pathway stones glumly. "What _is_ like me?" he muttered, aware that he sounded like a petulant child. He huffed a sigh, shoulders sagging.

"What's the matter with you?" she said, sounding very much like she didn't need to hear his response to form an opinion of it. Draco imagined she knew him better than anyone else in the house, possibly including himself. He shook his head.

"Nothing. It's only two. Couldn't we go to Diagon Alley for my school supplies this afternoon?"

His mother looked at him incredulously. "You've only just got back from what I imagine was a fairly harrowing, dangerous mission, from which only two of you have so far returned, and you want to go _shopping_?"

Draco shrugged. "There's only a week 'til school," he suggested as his only valid excuse.

She tsked. "Your father's taking you tomorrow," she replied, frowning. "Don't think I haven't noticed your avoiding him. Have you had a row?"

"No," he replied immediately. "He's just been difficult to get on with, after coming back." Not a lie. "You haven't noticed?" He watched her carefully for signs she was hiding something from him that might require a little father-son chat wherein one of them gave the other what-for.

She sighed at him long-sufferingly. "If you've had an argument, you can come to me, darling. I know how to handle your father. He's not impossible, even now." She closed the gap between them and hugged her to him like he was eleven again, leaving home for the first time to go to school. "Oh, my darling," she crooned softly, stroking through his hair. "You're so like him."

##

**"I**s he very angry?" Draco mumbled, trying to make conversation with his strangely quiet father. He sneered at an ugly bust of some famous Witch from centuries ago staring out at them from behind a dusty shop window. They'd already got his books and sent them home ahead of them so they could wander about being father and son. The once bustling street was eerily deserted. He didn't know when everyone else had got their books or if they were even going to bother going back, but they appeared to be two of only a handful of shady peoples ambling about.

"Who?" his father replied airily.

Draco scowled. "You _know_ who," he snapped, then felt giddy at the slight pun. _You-know-who_, is who.

"Ohhh," Lucius chuckled. "Right. That."

"Yes, that," Draco confirmed, knitting his brows in irritated confusion. He stole a glance around them to be sure his father's light-hearted mood wasn't due to some horrible trap he'd arranged and tightened his grasp around the wand in his pocket.

"I'm certain he cares not a whit, m'boy," Lucius advanced cheerily.

"Doesn't care?" Draco hissed in disbelief. "But, sending Parkinson, and-"

Lucius turned to him, finally realising Draco'd stopped and was no longer at his side. He looked at him kindly. "He only wants to kill you, Draco," he said calmly, a smile touching his lips. He shrugged affably. "That's all."

Draco went a little cold, although the sentiment wasn't new to him. His face twisted without his permission for a moment before he could rein himself in, and then he gazed impassively at his father before chinning to the nearest dark pub. He didn't have to look back to know his father was following; the sharp tap of his walking stick told on him.

The pub was closed, but Draco only wanted the dark of the doorway anyway. Once they were well into the shadow, he turned bright eyes on his father, feeling ridiculously emotional. "That's all?" he hissed. "It's only my _life_?"

Lucius grinned and lifted his brows, turning out toward the afternoon sunlight just beyond the shadows. "That's right," he agreed happily. "It's worth less and less to him every day."

A stone dropped into Draco's stomach and he had to swallow to keep from vomiting the lunch he hadn't been able to eat. He didn't care? After deciding at the threat of death that he cared for his father after all and was pleased neither of his parents had as yet been killed, after choosing to believe what he'd told Snape, that Lucius had simply come back from Azkaban different and strange and unable to control his baser emotions - after all of that. The man didn't even care that he was in constant peril, that it was due to _his_ choices alone, that -

Draco pushed past his father back into the warm sunlight, hoping the presence of summer-turning-fall would bring life back into his limbs and lift the cold off his shoulders, but was pulled back into reality by his father's unerringly strong grip round his upper arm, jerking him to a stop.

"Draco!" he hissed in warning.

Draco froze, shoulders shrugged up to ward off a blow, something he regretted a moment later but realised was probably the proper reaction, cowardly though it might have appeared. Lucius snatched his hand back so quickly he could have torn Draco's sleeve if he hadn't remembered to loose his grip first.

"Draco," he said again, his voice hitching. Draco looked back in concern and a bit of befuddlement.

"I'm going to Orchid Paisley's Ladies' Boutique," he said shortly, storming off.

His father followed after. "Whatever for?" he rejoined incredulously.

"A gift for Mother," Draco seethed. "Someone who happens to care whether I survive _your_ war."

"I care, Draco," Lucius said softly, looking injured.

Draco knitted his brows together and gestured widely at nothing in particular in confused exasperation. "It's still amazing," he said, voice strangled with emotion he couldn't disguise, "that I can't tell when you're lying through your teeth! Lucky for me you _openly_ contradict yourself in your madness. Lucky for me you've forgotten which lies you've already told!" He stopped short to look about them in horror, desperately aware they'd been arguing quite publicly, despite his half-hearted attempt to keep to shadows for their personal squabbling. He put his hand to his mouth to compose himself, feeling wildly off-balance, and waved his father away with the other. That it stopped the elder Malfoy in his tracks didn't escape his notice, but it didn't merit a comment either. "I'm going. I'll meet you back at home," he whispered.

Lucius watched him, gnawing a lip in indecision, then he made a show of stalking off in the opposite direction even though Draco knew he could have turned on the spot. Father always did have a flair for the dramatic, something Draco apparently couldn't help but mimic.


End file.
